THE  FOREST. 


OF 


Illustrations  fioin  JJ rawing  by  C.  E.  DO^LKK.     Engraved  by  J    W.  O 


G.     P.     P  tr  TN  A  M 

Iboo. 


CO., 


THE 


CO  UN  TRY    LIFE: 


OR,    SELECTIONS   FROM 


f  JHSjs  (Dli  anil  $Uto. 


BY 

THE  AUTHOR  OF  "RURAL  HOURS 

ETC.,  ETC. 

£  Co6«A^.  Ou-OCUi^  T' 


"  The  boundless  store 

Of  charms  which  Nature  to  her  votary  yields  ! 
The  warbling  woodland,  the  resounding  shore, 
The  pomp  of  groves  and  garniture  of  fields — 
All  that  the  genial  ray  of  Morning  gilds, 
And  all  that  echoes  to  the  song  of  Even." 

BEATTIK. 


NEW  YORK: 
G.    P.    PUTNAM    AND    COMPANY, 

10    PARK    PLACE. 

1854. 


ENTERED.    ACCORDING   TO    ACT    OF    CONGRESS,    IN   THE    YEAR   1854,    BY 

G.    P.    PUTNAM    &    CO., 

IN   THE    CLERK'S    OFFICE    OF   THE    DISTRICT    COURT   OF    THE    UNITED    STATES 
FOR   THE   SOUTHERN   DISTRICT   OF   NEW  YORK. 


NEW   YORK   STEREOTYPE   ASSOCIATION, 

201  William  Street. 


IffiB 


TO 


WILLIAM   CULLBN   BRYANT. 

• 

&  STrffcute 

OF 

ADMIRATION     FOK     HIS      GENIUS, 

AND 

3n  (feitrftil  lltniBmbrniin  nf  n  Cnirrntrs  (Dffrring 


MEMORY     OF     HIS    FRIEND, 


ARE     VERY     RESPECTFULLY     INSCRIBED 
BY 

THE  EDITOR, 


^P^WO-o^xv-- 


tthtt. 


THE  selections  contained  in  this  volume  are  such  as 
relate  to  one  subject  only — that  of  country  life. 
But  this,  in  itself,  is  a  very  wide  sphere,  and  offers  in 
its  many  different  fields,  old  and  new,  all  the  variety 
that  the  most  capricious  spirit  could  desire.  In  col- 
lecting the  different  passages,  the  editor  has  allowed 
herself  a  wide  sweep  of  the  net ;  it  has  been  her  aim 
to  bring  together  many  beautiful  passages  from  the 
best  writers,  mingled  with  others  interesting  rather 
from  their  quaintness  and  oddity,  or  their  antiquity. 
With  this  view,  not  only  have  the  poets  of  our  own 
tongue,  ancient  and  modern,  English  and  American, 
been  laid  under  contribution  for  the  reader's  amuse- 
ment, but  translations  from  a  dozen  different  lan- 
guages have  also  been  included  in  the  volume.  Mate- 
rials for  a  work  of  this  nature  abound,  and  the  editor 


VI  PREFACE. 

would  have  gladly  drawn  even  more  largely  from  the 
sources  open  to  her,  not  only  from  the  older  authors, 
but  from  many  writers  of  our  own  day  also.  It  was 
desirable,  however,  that  the  volume  should  not  reach 
an  unwieldy  size,  as  it  was  intended  for  pleasant  com- 
panionship— the  summer-seat,  under  a  shady  tree,  or 
the  chimney  corner  in  winter — rather  than  for  the 
prouder  position  allotted  to  the  ponderous  quarto  on 
the  library  shelf.  A  word  of  especial  apology  is  per- 
haps needed,  regarding  some  of  our  omissions ;  "  Co- 
mus,"  the  "Allegro  and  Penseroso,"  Gray's  " Elegy11 
and  "  Ode  to  Spring,"  with  other  poems  of  that  class, 
though  peculiarly  fitted  for  a  compilation  of  this  kind, 
will  not  be  found  in  our  table  of  Contents.  But  they 
have  already  been  so  often  printed  and  misprinted, 
quoted  and  misquoted ! 

"  Dono  infelice  di  bellezza,  ond'  hai 
Funesta  dota  d'  infiniti  guai." 

In  this  instance  their  very  absence  will  serve  to  recall 
them  to  the  reader's  memory. 


CONTENTS. 


INTRODUCTION Page  13 


I.  STfte  jFlotoer  anti  ti)e  lleat 

The  Flower  and  the  Leaf 36 

H.  2Tf)e  33ee. 

To  the  Bees Page  54    The  Drone 59 

On  a  Bee's  Nest 54    Memory  of  the  Bee 60 

The  Bee 55    The  Death  of  the  Bee 60 

Management  of  Bees 55    Sonnet 61 

From  Shakspeare 59 

HI.  «Sj)tfnjj. 

The  Return  of  Spring  in  Greece 63  The  Flower 71 

Spring 64  Ode 73 

Description  of  Spring 64  To  Spring 74 

Spring 65  To  Spring 75 

On  Spring 65  Spring 76 

Sonnet  on  Spring 66  Ode 76 

Spring,  at  Easter 66  The  Awakening  Year 77 

The  Airs  of  Spring 69  Spring  Scene 78 

Return  of  Spring 69  Spring 79 

Ode  to  Spring 70 

IV.  ^ornfns. 

Morning  Melodies 80  Up,  Amaryllis ! 85 

Morning  Walk 81  The  Morning  Walk 86 

Hymn 81  Danish  Morning  Song 87 

Morning 83  Summer  Morning  Song 88 

Spring  Morning  in  Italy 84 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


V.  SLarft  airtJ 

Page 

The  Note  of  the  Nightingale 92 

Sonnet 93 

The  Nightingale 94 

Ode  to  a  Nightingale 95 

The  Nightingale 97 

The  Nightingale 98 

The  Mother  Bird 99 

The  Mother  Nightingale 99 

The  Nightingale 100 

Nest  of  the  Nightingale 101 

VI. 

May  Morning 112 

Emilia  on  May  Day 112 

Salutation  of  Maia 113 

Song 114 

VII.  £1 

On  a  Eural  Image  of  Pan 121 

Pastoral  Scene  from  "  The  Arcadia" . .  121 
From  the  "  Faithful  Shepherdess"  ...  122 

The  Shepherd's  Life 122 

The  Shepherd's  Address  to  his  Muse.  123 

Phillida  and  Corydon 125 

Shearing  Time 126 


Page 

The  Nightingale 103 

The  Lark 103 

To  the  Skylark 104 

A  Lark  Singing  in  a  Eainbow 107 

The  Skylark 107 

The  Moors  of  Jutland 108 

The  Eising  of  the  Lark 108 

The  Lark 109 

Lark 109 

Lines 110 


May 115 

Song 116 

May 117 


A  Fayre  and  Happy  Milk-Maid 128 

Sheep  Pastures 129 

The  Spinner's  Song 130 

Song  for  the  Spinning-Wheel 130 

Wurtha 131 

To  Meadows 132 

French  Song 132 


VIII.  £f)e 

Flowers 136 

Spring-Flowers 136 

Arrangements  of  a  Bouquet 137 

Heart's-Ease 138 

The  Garland 139 

To  Primroses 140 

To  the  Narcissus 141 

The  Eose 142 

Ancient  Servian  Song 142 

To  Blossoms 143 

Children's  Posies 143 

Love's  Wreath 144 

To  Daffodils 144 

The  Lily 145 

IX. 

Grongar  Hill 157 

Letter  on  Certain  Trees 161 

A  Sketch 162 

An  English  Peasant's  Cottage 163 

Ruth : 163 

Simple  Pleasures 164 


(jKarlariD. 

Wild  Flowers 145 

To  the  Sweet-Brier 147 

The  Wild  Honeysuckle 148 

Wild  Flowers 148 

Beau  and  the  Lily 149 

Flowers 150 

Alpine  Flowers 153 

To  the  Bramble  Flower 153 

The  Painted  Cup 154 

The  Wreath  of  Grasses 155 

Divination 155 

Grass 155 

Daffodils...  ..  156 


From  "  The  Complete  Angler" 164 

The  Milk-Maid's  Song 166 

The  Milk-Maid's  Mother's  Answer. . .  16? 

The  Solitary  Eeaper 168 

The  Husbandman. . .  . .  169 


CONTENTS. 


)X 


X. 

Paxe  Page 

The  Garden 171    Flowers  and  Art 176 

Of  Gardens 171    Chinese  Gardening 177 

A  Garden 172     Employment 177 

The  Garden  of  Alcinoua 172    The  Garden 178 

The  Garden  of  Eden 173    The  Gardeners 179 

Of  Gardens 174    Lines 181 

Gardening 175 

XI.  Summer. 

Saxon  Song  of  Summer 182    The  Sun 187 

Lines 183    Delight  in  God 18S 

The  Summer  Months 183    Noon 189 

Virtue 184    Summer  Dream 191 

From  the  "  Holy  Dying" 185    Summer 192 

Simile 185    Portuguese  Canzonet 193 

The  Sun 186 

XII.  Stje  jForest. 

From  "  E vangeline" 194    Lime-Trees 202 

Song 194    The  Birch-Tree 203 

A  Grove 195    The  Hemlock-Tree 204 

Of  the  Seminary,  and  of  Transplanting  196    The  Oak 205 

Windsor  Forest 196    On  an  Ancient  Oak 2u5 

Fairlop 197    "Wood  Notes 205 

An  Old  Oak 198    A  Pine-Forest 207 

Yardley  Oak 198    A  Wood  in  Winter 203 

The  Groaning  Elm  of  Badesley 200    "  Leaves  have  their  Time  to  Fall" 208 

Yew-Trees 201    Sonnet 209 

Lines 202 

Xi 

Lines 211    The  Owl 217 

A  Flight  of  Cranes 211     Extract 218 

The  Swallow  and  the  Grasshopper...  212    The  Pattichap's  Nest 219 

The  Same 212    A  Thought 219 

Song  of  the  Swallow 213    The  Birds  of  Passage 220 

Swallows 214    The  Dove 222 

Lines 214    The  Dying  Swan 228 

TheBlackCock 215    The  Twa  Corbiea 224 

To  the  Mockinsr-Bird 215    The  Redbreast  in  September 224 

The  Bob-o-Linkum 216 

XIV.  SJie  Butterfly 

Muiopotmos ;  or,  the  Fate  of  the  But-  Insects 240 

terflie 227     Flowers  and  Insects 240 

On  a  Locust 238    The  Dragon-Fly 241 

To  the  Cicada 238    To  an  Insect 242 

The  Grasshopper 239    The  Grasshopper 248 

1* 


CONTENTS. 


XV.  2Tfje  Streams. 


Page 


Page 


The  Streams  ........................  245    On  the  Bronze  Image  of  a  Frog  .....  258 

The  Thames  ........................  245    Little  Streams  ......................  253 


Kiver  and  Song  .....................  247 

Ode  to  Leven-Water  ................  247 

Song  ..............................  248 

The  Rivulet  ........................  250 

The  Stream  of  the  Rock  .............  250 

A  River  ............................  252 

Life  compared  to  a  Stream  ...........  252 


Frogs  ..............................  255 

The  Eivulets  .......................  255 

Lines  ..............................  256 

The  Wayside  Spring  ................  257 

Gulls  ...............................  258 

The  Fountain  .......................  258 


XVI.  JFafrfes. 

Elves 262  Slavic 278 

Hynde  Etin 262  Cottage  Fairy 274 

The  Fairy  Queen 268  Fairies  in  the  Highlands 275 

Merry  Pranks  of  Robin  Good-Fellow  270 


XVII. 


Of  Beauty  ..........................  278  Song  ..............................    284 

Fragment  ..........................  279  To  a  Mountain-Daisy  ................  285 

The  Memory  of  a  Walk  .............  279  Mossgiel  ............................  286 

A  Bower  ...........................  279  The  Forest-Leaves  in  Autumn  .......  287 

Mist  of  the  Mountain-Top  ...........  282  Bohemian  .........................  287 

Emblem  ............................  288  A  Landscape  and  its  Associations  ____  28S 


XVIH. 


©alentrar. 


July 299 

August 800 

August 801 

September 802 

October 802 

April 293    November 803 

Ode  to  First  of  April 294    November 303 

April 296    November  in  England 304 

May 298 


The  Opening  Year  ..................  289 

On  Observing  a  Blossom  .............  290 

February  ..........................  290 

March  ..............................  291 

April  ..............................  292 


Jane 


299 


Sonnet 805 

Song  305 


XIX. 


Sc&oolmfstress. 


The  Schoolmistress.  .................  808  Gipsies  ............................  317 

The  Hamlet  ........................  313  A  Sterile  Field  .....................  818 

The  Nosegay  .......................  314  The  English  Common  ..............  819 

The  Well  of  St.  Keyne  ..............  315  Lines  ..............................  819 

LosePs  Farm  ...........  .  .  316  lanes  ...  .  .  820 


CONTENTS. 


XX.  Autumn. 


To  Autumn  near  her  Departure 

Autumn 

Ode  to  William  Lyttleton,  Esq 


Page  Page 

323  Autumn  Scene  in  England  ..........  828 

823  Indian  Summer  ....................  829 

325  An  Autumn  Landscape  .............  329 


Song  ..............................  32T    Autumn  Woods 


880 


XXI. 


A  Wish  ............................  333  A  Thanksgiving  for  his  House  .......  338 

A  Country  Life  .....................  334  The  Stranger  on  the  Sill  .............  339 

Of  Building  ........................  384  The  Invitation  ......................  340 

Of  Building  ........................  336  Icelandic  Lines  .....................  341 


The  Wish  ..........................  387    Domestic  Peace 


S41 


XXII.  Sfte 

Ancient  Hunting  Song  ..............  842  A  Sportsman  of  Olden  Time  ........  848 

Hounds  ...........................  343  Sonnet  .............................  349 

Deer  Leap  .........................  343  Sonnet  .............................  350 

The  Hare  ..........................  843  Lines  ..............................  350 

A  Hunter's  Matin  ...................  347 

XXIIL  tffcetrtej). 

Ode  ................................  351  Song  ...............................  359 

Letter  of  Sir  Thomas  More  to  his  Wife  358  Song  ...............................  359 

Peasant  Pavo  .......................  354  Blessings  of  a  Country  Life  ..........  360 

Country  Life  ........................  356  Plagues  of  a  Country  Life  ...........  360 

Scene  in  an  American  Forest  ........  357 


XXIV. 


an*  €Umtr. 


A  Storm  in  Autumn  .................  861  To  the  Rainbow  ....................  864 

To  the  Rainbow    ...................  862  The  Hurricane  ......................  365 

The  Windy  Night  ..................  363  The  Rainbow  ......................  867 

A  Shower  ..........................  864 


XXV. 


369    Song  ...............................  876 

Servian  ............................  877 

Lines  ..............................  377 

The  Country  Lasse  ..................  374    The  Balade  of  the  Shepharde  ........  878 

Harvest  Song  .......................  875 


The  Story  of  Aaron  the  Beggar 

Elegy  ..............................  371 

Take  Thy  Old  Cloake  about  Thee....  872 


XXVI. 


Song  .............................  .  .  882  A  Vision 

Song  of  Colma.  .....................  833  The  Carapagna  of  Rome 

Song  ...............................  894  The  Wave  of  Life 

Lines  ..............................  384  Mutability 

Letter  of  St.  Basil.  .  .  .....  885 


Xll 


CONTENTS. 


xxvu. 

Page  Page 

Winter 391    A  Winter  Song 996 

A  Winter  Scene 392    The  Thrush 396 

Winter  Song 398    Sonnet 39T 

Holly  Song 394    Spring  and  Winter 397 

An  Old-Fashioned  Holly  Hedge 394    Woods  in  Winter 398 

Christmas  Carol 394    Winter 899 

The  Seasons  . .  . .  395 


XXVIH. 

Fragment  from  the  Greek  of  Aristotle  400 
The  Creation  of  the  Earth  ...........  401 

Earth  ..............................  402 

The  Shield  of  Achilles  ..............  403 

Lines  ..............................  404 

An  Italian  Moon  ....................  40T 


Italian  Song  ........................  408 

A  Farm  Scene  in  Portugal  ...........  408 

From  "  The  Lusiad"  ................  411 

Paradise  ...........................  412 

Nature  Teaching  Immortality  .......  413 


XXIX.  ISbemrtfl  antr 


The  Moon  ..........................  415  Night  ..............................  423 

Lines  ..............................  415  Evening  ...........................  424 

To  Cynthia  .........................  416  Spring  Evening  ....................  424 

To  Night  ..........................  416  Song  ...............................  425 

Night  ..............................  41T  Song  ...............................  425 

To  the  Moon  .......................  418  Life  ................................  426 

Moonlight  ..........................  419  On  Hope  ...........................  426 

Elegy  ..............................  420  Sonnet  .............................  426 

Night  Song  .........................  422  Tvrilight  ...........................  42T 

Progress  of  Evening  ................  423 


INTRODUCTION. 


THE  ancient  classical  writers  of  the  world  are  thought  to 
have  shown  but  little  sensibility  to  that  natural  beauty  with 
which  the  earth  has  been  clothed,  as  with  a  magnificent  gar- 
ment, by  her  Almighty  Creator.  Those  of  their  works  which 
have  been  preserved  to  us  are  declared  by  critics  rarely  to 
bear  evidence  of  much  depth  of  feeling  of  this  kind.  The 
German  scholars  are  understood  to  have  been  the  first  to 
broach  this  opinion — the  first  to  point  out  the  fact,  and  to 
comment  on  what  appears  a  singular  inconsistency. 

"  If  we  bear  in  mind,"  says  Schiller,  "  the  beautiful  scenery 
with  which  the  Greeks  were  surrounded,  and  remember  the 
opportunities  possessed  by  a  people  living  in  so  genial  a  cli- 
mate, of  entering  into  the  free  enjoyment  of  the  contemplation 
of  nature,  and  observe  how  conformable  were  their  mode  of 
thought,  the  bent  of  their  imaginations,  and  the  habits  of  their 
lives  to  the  simplicity  of  nature,  which  was  so  faithfully  re- 
flected in  their  poetic  works,  we  can  not  fail  to  remark  with 
surprise  how  few  traces  are  to  be  met  among  them  of  the 
sentimental  interest  with  which  we  in  modern  times  attach 
ourselves  to  the  individual  characteristics  of  natural  scenery. 
The  Greek  poet  is  certainly  in  the  highest  degree  correct, 
faithful,  and  circumstantial  in  his  descriptions  of  nature,  but 
his  heart  has  more  share  in  his  words  than  if  he  were  treating 
of  a  garment,  a  shield,  or  a  suit  of  armor.  Nature  seems  to 
interest  his  understanding  more  than  his  moral  perceptions  ; 
he  does  not  cling  to  her  charms  with  the  fervor  and  the  plain- 
tive passion  of  the  poet  of  modern  times." 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

This  passage  of  Schiller,  quoted  in  "  Cosmos,"  is  supported 
by  similar  observations  of  M.  de  Humboldt  himself:  "  Spe- 
cific descriptions  of  nature  occur  only  as  accessories,  for  in 
Grecian  art  all  things  are  centered  in  the  sphere  of  human 
life."  And,  again:  "The  description  of  nature  in  its  mani- 
fold richness  of  form,  as  a  distinct  branch  of  poetic  literature, 
was  wholly  unknown  to  the  Greeks.  The  landscape  appears 
among  them  merely  as  the  background  of  the  picture,  of 
which  human  figures  constitute  the  main  subject."  Touches 
of  description  must  of  course  occasionally  occur,  and  when- 
ever these  are  found,  the  harmony  of  Grecian  taste  gives  them 
the  highest  beauty  possible.  The  many  noble  similes  and  com- 
parisons scattered  through  the  greater  poems,  form  admirable 
detached  pictures  ;  but  they  occupy  the  attention  very  briefly  ; 
a  rapid  glance  is  thrown  upon  the  hill,  the  river,  or  the  wood, 
rather  for  the  purpose  of  affording  greater  relief  to  the  figures 
in  the  foreground  than  of  enduing  the  sketch  of  these  feat- 
ures of  the  earth  with  any  charm  or  importance  in  itself. 
But  it  is  quite  impossible  to  believe  for  a  moment  that  the 
Greeks,  so  fully  alive  to  the  spirit  of  beauty  in  all  its  other 
forms,  should  have  been  blind  to  its  effects  in  the  natural 
world.  Other  ways  of  accounting  for  the  apparent  inconsist- 
ency must  be  sought  for,  and  the  peculiar  character  and  posi- 
tion of  the  people  would  seem  to  suggest  these.  It  was  quite 
consistent  with  the  condition  of  the  world  at  that  early  period, 
and  of  the  Greeks  in  particular,  that  nature  and  art  should  not 
then  hold  the  same  relative  places  which  they  occupy  to-day. 
Art  was  still  in  its  youth,  and  of  more  importance  to  them  than 
it  is  to  us.  Nature,  with  all  her  untold  wealth,  her  unhar- 
vested  magnificence,  lay  before  them,  close  at  hand,  always 
within  reach ;  there  was  no  fear  that  she  should  fail  them. 
But  human  Art  was  in  its  earliest  stages  of  culture  ;  every 
successive  step  was  watched  with  most  lively  interest ;  every 
progressive  movement  became  of  great  importance,  while 
the  genius  of  the  Greeks  particularly  led  them  to  feel  ex- 
treme delight  in  every  achievement  of  the  kind.  In  fact,  all 
their  highest  enjoyments  flowed  from  this  source,  and  into 


INTRODUCTION.  15 

this  sphere  they  threw  themselves  with  their  whole  soul. 
Whatever  susceptibility  to  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  the 
inanimate  creation  was  felt  among  them,  sought  therefore 
rather  to  express  itself  in  forms  more  positive  than  the  voice 
of  song.  What,  for  instance,  was  the  most  noble  of  their 
temples  but  the  image  in  Dorian  marble  of  some  grand  prime- 
val grove,  whose  gray,  columnar  trunks  they  found  reflected 
in  the  waves  of  the  jEgean  Sea  ?  What  were  the  vase,  and 
the  vine  wreathed  about  its  lip,  but  the  repetition  of  living 
forms  of  fruits  and  foliage  growing  in  the  vale  of  Tempe,  or  at 
the  foot  of  Hymettus  ?  The  Greek  mind  thus  beheld  the 
whole  external  world  chiefly  through  the  medium  of  human 
Art.  An  interesting  and  very  striking  instance  of  this  pecu- 
liarity occurs  in  the  Iliad  ;  no  natural  object  which  has  a  place 
in  the  poem — neither  the  sea  nor  the  skies,  neither  the  streams 
nor  the  mountains,  all  glowing  as  these  were  with  the  purple 
light  of  a  Grecian  atmosphere — could  draw  from  Homer  a 
description  filling  half  the  space  allotted  by  him  to  the  shield 
of  Achilles  ;  nay,  more,  observe  that  where  rural  life  and  its 
accessories  appear  the  most  distinctly  in  his  verse,  it  is  not 
the  reality  which  he  shows  us  ;  we  do  not  ourselves  tread  the 
brown  soil  of  the  freshly-tilled  fallow  ;  we  do  not  pass  along 
the  one  narrow  path  in  the  vineyard,  amid  the  purple  clus- 
ters, but  we  are  called  upon  to  behold  these  objects — "  sight 
to  be  admired  of  all !" — as  they  lie  curiously  graven  by  the 
hand  of  Vulcan  on  the  bronze  buckler  of  the  hero,  where  he 

*     *     *     «  With  devices  multiform,  ttie  disk 
Capacious  charged,  toiling  with  skill  divine."* 

Their  very  religion  was  but  a  work  of  art,  a  brilliant  web 
of  the  human  imagination,  into  which,  as  on  the  metal  of 
Vulcan,  their  poets  had  wrought 

"  Borders  beauteous,  dazzling  bright," 

where  Olympic  deities  passed  to  and  fro,  with  grace  and  spirit 

unequaled,  but  moving  ever  by  the  springs  of  the  most  com- 

*  See  Part  XXIX.  of  the  following  selections. 


16  INTRODUCTION. 

mon  of  human  passions.  All  the  inanimate  objects  of  the 
visible  creation  had  their  allotted  places  in  this  gorgeous, 
imaginative  tissue,  though  still  appearing  under  associations 
purely  human.  They  had,  in  short,  no  conceptions  of  nature 
independent  of  man ;  to  them  the  whole  world  was  but  the 
shield  of  Achilles. 

With  the  same  mythology,  the  same  philosophy  as  the 
Greeks,  the  Romans  are  admitted  to  have  been  essentially 
plagiarists.  They  saw  the  earth,  in  this  sense,  with  the  eyes 
of  the  Greeks.  Their  literature  has  even  been  accused  of  a 
greater  dearth  of  poetical  observation,  as  regards  the  natural 
world,  than  that  of  their  predecessors.  The  practical  real- 
ities of  life  engrossed  their  attention  more  exclusively.  A 
colossal  selfishness  was  their  striking  national  characteristic 
— a  characteristic  which  was  alike  the  cause,  first,  of  their  po- 
litical prosperity,  and  later  of  their  downfall.  Rome  was  their 
deity ;  to  her  daily  needs,  or  interests,  or  pleasures,  all  was 
s-aerificed  ;  they  cared  little  for  the  mountains,  and  forests, 
and  streams  of  the  earth,  provided  all  the  wealth  and  magnif- 
icence of  these  were  brought  over  Roman  ways  to  swell  the 
triumph  of  the  Forum.  It  has  been  remarked  that  Caesar 
could  pass  the  Alps,  then  comparatively  an  unknown  region, 
without  one  allusion  to  their  sublime  character.  Still,  a  body 
of  men  like  the  great  Latin  writers  could  not,  of  course,  exist 
devoid  of  susceptibility  to  the  beauty  of  the  inanimate  world, 
and  many  passages  may  be  drawn  from  their  poems  bearing 
witness  to  this  fapt.  Although,  says  M.  de  Humboldt,  there 
is  no  individual  rural  portraiture  in  the  ^Eneid,  yet  "  a  deep 
and  intimate  comprehension  of  nature  is  depicted  in  soft  col- 
ors. Where,  for  instance,  has  the  gentle  play  of  the  waves, 
or  the  stillness  of  night,  been  more  happily  described  ?"  The 
modern  reader,  however,  is  still  left  to  wonder  that  poets  so 
great  should  not  have  delighted  more  frequently  in  enlarging 
upon  similar  topics,  and  that  even  in  many  of  their  elegiac 
works  social  life  should  so  exclusively  fill  up  the  space.*  We 

*  Unwilling,  for  a  moment,  to  be  supposed  entitled  to  credit  to  which 
she  can  lay  no  just  claim,  the  writer  of  these  remarks  hastens  to  avow 


INTRODUCTION.  17 

should  have  rather  supposed  that  when  the  earth  stood  in  her 
primitive  freshness,  in  the  morning  of  her  existence,  her 
wealth  of  beauty  as  yet  unsung,  that  the  works  of  the  first 
great  poets  would  have  been  filled  with  the  simple  reflection 
of  her  natural  glory.  But,  as  we  have  seen,  such  was  not 
the  case  with  the  writers  of  Greece  or  of  Rome  ;  and,  as  we 
have  already  ventured  to  intimate,  it  would  appear  that  the 
great  intellectual  activity  of  those  races,  connected  with  the 
period  of  time  filled  by  them,  where  so  wide  a  field  opened 
in  every  direction,  became  in  itself  a  prominent  cause  of  this 
peculiar  deficiency  of  their  literature.  Whatever  admiration 
they  felt  for  nature  expressed  itself  in  positive  forms  of  art,  or 
in  an  imaginative  system  of  mythology,  rather  than  in  song. 

But  something  of  a  different  spirit  appears  to  have  actuated 
the  old  Asiatic  nations.  The  ancient  Indian  races,  for  in- 
stance, were  more  contemplative  in  character,  and  more  vivid 
impressions  of  natural  objects  are  revealed  in  their  writings. 
The  Sanscrit  Hymns,  and  the  heroic  poems  of  the  same  Ian-- 
guage,  are  said  to  contain  fine  descriptive  passages.  "  The 
main  subject  of  these  writings,"  says  M.  de  Humboldt,  speak- 
ing of  the  Sanscrit  Vedas,  "  are  the  veneration  and  praise  of 
Nature."  A  poem,  called  "  The  Seasons" — and  one  starts  at 
the  familiar  name — with  another  work,  called  "  The  Messen- 
ger of  the  Clouds,"  are  full,  we  are  told,  of  the  same  spirit ; 
they  were  written  by  Kalidasa,  a  cotemporary  of  Virgil 
and  Horace.  It  would  have  given  us  pleasure  to  offer  the 
reader  a  few  fragments  from  writings  so  ancient  and  so  inter- 
esting ;  one  would  have  liked  to  compare  a  passage  from  the 
Sanscrit  Seasons  with  those  so  celebrated  and  so  familiar 
from  our  own  language  and  modern  time,  but  no  English  ver- 
sions are  found  witliin  reach.  The  fact,  however,  of  this 

that  whatever  opinions  she  may  have  formed  on  subjects  connected  with 
ancient  literature,  have  been  entirely  drawn  from  translations.  Al- 
though it  is  impossible  to  enjoy  the  full  perfection  of  a  great  poem  in 
any  other  than  the  original  language,  yet  we  are  enabled,  by  means  of 
the  best  versions,  to  form  general  views  regarding  a  work,  and  to  ap- 
preciate, at  least,  the  spirit  with  which  it  is  imbued. 


18  INTRODUCTION. 

characteristic  of  the  Sanscrit  poems  is  placed  beyond  reason- 
able doubt  by  the  declarations  of  many  distinguished  men  of 
learning,  more  particularly  among  the  German  scholars. 

The  Chinese,  that  singular  people  which  for  ages  have 
separated  themselves  from  the  rest  of  the  earth  by  impassable 
barriers  of  prejudice  and  mystery,  are  now  found — as  glimpses 
are  opening  into  their  interior — to  have  long  shown  some  par- 
tiality for  natural  beauty.  Among  other  poems,  touching  more 
or  less  upon  subjects  of  this  kind,  they  have  one  bearing  the 
simple  name  of  "  The  Garden,"  which  was  written  by  See- 
ma-kuang,  a  celebrated  statesman,  some  eight  or  nine  centu- 
ries since,  and  which  is  said  to  contain  agreeable  descriptive 
passages  ;  the  sketch  of  a  hermitage  among  rocks  and  ever- 
green woods,  arid  a  fine,  extensive  water  view  over  one  of 
their  great  rivers,  are  especially  referred  to.  Lieu-schew, 
another  ancient  writer  of  theirs,  dwells  at  length  on  the  sub- 
ject of  pleasure-grounds,  for  which  he  gives  admirable  direc- 
tions, in  the  English  style,  at  a  period  when  a  really  fine 
garden  was  not  to  be  found  in  all  Northern  Europe  ;  a  short 
translation  from  a  passage  of  his  will  be  found  in  the  following 
selections.*  Gardening,  in  fact,  appears  to  have  been  the 
sphere  in  which  Chinese  love  of  nature  has  especially  sought 
to  unfold  itself;  that  perception  of  beauty  of  coloring  arid  of 
nicety  of  detail,  very  general  among  them,  shows  itself  here 
in  perfection ;  they  have  long  been  great  florists,  and  have 
delighted  in  writing  verses  upon  particular  flowers  and  fruit- 
trees.  Garden  and  song  were  thus  closely  connected  by 
them  ;  and  if  one  may  judge  from  brief  views  received 
through  others,  their  poetry  has  very  frequently  indeed  some- 
thing of  a  horticultural  character.  Their  busy,  practical  hab- 
its and  close  inspection  of  detail  would  easily  incline  them 
in  this  direction ;  but  as  yet  nothing  grand  or  very  elevated 
has  been  given  to  us  by  translators. 

The  Hebrew  poets  stand  alone.  Their  position  is  abso- 
lutely different  from  that  of  all  profane  writers,  and  places 
them  at  a  distance  from  the  usual  limits  of  a  mere  literary 

*  Part  X. 


INTRODUCTION.  19 

comparison.  They  only,  as  priests  and  prophets  of  the  One 
Living  God,  beheld  the  natural  world  in  the  holy  light  of 
truth.  Small  as  was  the  space  the  children  of  Israel  filled 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth,  the  humblest  individual  of 
their  tribes  knew  that  the  God  of  Abraham  was  the  Lord  God 
of  Hosts,  and  that  all  things  visible  were  but  the  works  of  his 
hands.  "  The  Lord  made  the  heavens,  and  the  earth,  and  the 
sea,  arid  all  that  in  them  is ;"  they  bowed  the  knee  to  no  one 
object  "  in  the  heaven  above,  or  in  the  earth  beneath,  or  in  the 
water  under  the  earth."  Truth  is,  of  its  nature,  sublime.  No 
fiction  of  the  human  imagination,  even  in  the  highest  and  rich- 
est forms  which  it  is  capable  of  assuming,  can  approach  to 
that  majesty  which  is  her  inherent  prerogative.  The  views 
of  the  earth,  open  to  the  children  of  Israel,  had  naturally, 
therefore,  a  grandeur  far  beyond  what  the  Greeks,  with  all 
the  luxuriance  of  their  florid  mythology,  could  attain  to.  Of 
this  fact — thanks  to  the  translations  of  the  Sacred  Writings  in 
the  hands  of  all  who  speak  the  English  tongue — any  one  of  us 
is  capable  of  judging;  the  extreme  excellence  of  the  Psalms, 
merely  in  the  sense  of  literary  compositions,  and  indepen- 
dently of  the  far  higher  claims  they  have  upon  mankind,  has 
never  failed  to  impress  itself  deeply  on  all  minds  open  to  such 
perceptions.  The  nineteenth  Psalm,  with  the  unequaled 
grandeur  of  its  opening  verses  ;  the  twenty-third,  with  its 
pastoral  sweetness  ;  the  hundred  and  fourth,  with  the  fullness 
of  its  natural  pictures  ;  the  hundred  and  seventh ;  the  ninety- 
sixth  ;  the  hundred  and  forty-fifth ;  the  hundred  and  forty- 
eighth,  with  others  of  a  similar  character,  will  recur  to  every 
reader.  It  is  generally  admitted  that,  throughout  the  range  of 
ancient  profane  writing,  nothing  has  yet  been  brought  to  light 
which  can  equal  these,  or  other  great  passages  of  the  Psalms, 
of  the  Pentateuch,  the  Prophets,  or  the  Book  of  Job.  Even 
for  sweetness,  also,  the  old  Hebrew  writers  were  very  re- 
markable. The  most  celebrated  author  and  literary  artist  of 
modern  Germany,  and  one  little  likely  to  have  been  influ- 
enced on  such  a  subject  by  warmth  of  religious  feeling,  has 
left  it  as  his  written  opinion  that  the  Book  of  Ruth,  usually 


20  INTRODUCTION. 

attributed  to  the  prophet  Samuel,  is  "  the  loveliest  specimen 
of  epic  and  idyl  poetry  which  we  possess."*  But  the  history 
of  Jacob  and  his  family,  and  the  personal  story  of  David  in  all 
its  details,  with  other  episodes  easily  pointed  out,  are  almost 
equally  full  of  this  beautiful  pastoral  spirit.  The  same  in- 
spired pens  which  have  dwelt  on  the  grandest  events  of  which 
time  has  any  knowledge,  have  not  disdained  to  move  the 
lesser  chords  of  human  sympathies  and  affections.  It  was 
the  most  honored  of  the  Prophets  who  so  nobly  recorded  the 
greatest  of  all  physical  facts,  the  creation  of  light :  "  And  God 
said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light."  And  on  the 
page  immediately  following,  while  still  occupied  in  recording 
the  grand  successive  stages  of  the  creation,  he  condescends 
to  note  that  out  of  the  earth  "  the  Lord  God  made  to  grow 
every  tree  that  is  pleasant  to  the  sight"  This  simple  phrase, 
taken  in  connection  with  all  its  sublime  relations  of  time  and 
place,  has  a  gracious  tenderness,  a  compassionate  beneficence 
of  detail  which  moves  the  heart  deeply  ;  all  the  delight  which 
the  trees  of  the  wood  have  afforded  to  men,  independently  of 
their  uses  ;  the  many  peaceful  homes  they  have  overshadowed ; 
the  many  eyes  they  have  gladdened  ;  all  the  festal  joys  of  the 
race  in  which  their  branches  have  waved,  seem  to  crowd  the 
mind  in  one  grateful  picture,  and  force  from  our  lips  the  fa- 
miliar invocation,  "  O  all  ye  green  things  upon  earth,  bless  ye 
the  Lord ;  praise  him,  and  magnify  him  forever." 

The  most  ancient  writings  of  the  world  thus  afford  evi- 
dence that  in  those  remote  ages  the  perception  of  natural 
beauty  was  not  wanting  in  the  human  heart.  Different  races 
and  individual  men  may  have  varied  greatly  in  giving  expres- 
sion to  the  feeling.  David  and  Homer,  the  Indian  and  the 
Roman,  may  have  sung  in  very  different  tones,  but  wherever 
intellectual  life  was  at  all  active,  there  some  strain,  at  least, 
from  the  great  Hyrnn  was  heard. 

But  very  early,  in  what  may  be  called  Christian  literature, 
this  feeling  began  to  receive  a  fresh  impulse  and  a  new  di- 
rection. On  the  same  soil,  and  among  the  same  races,  where, 
*  Goethe. 


INTRODUCTION.  21 

in  the  height  of  heathen  civilization  it  had  never  received 
adequate  expression,  both  in  Italy  and  in  Greece,  the  eye  of 
the  believer  was  gradually  opening  to  clearer  and  more  worthy 
views  of  the  creation. 

"  Look  upward,"  says  St.  Chrysostom,  "  to  the  vault  of 
heaven,  and  around  thee  on  the  open  fields  in  which  herds 
graze  by  the  water-side  ;  who  does  not  despise  all  the  crea- 
tions of  art,  when,  in  the  stillness  of  his  spirit,  he  watches 
with  admiration  the  rising  of  the  sun,  as  it  pours  its  golden 
light  over  the  face  of  the  earth ;  when,  resting  on  the  thick 
grass  beside  the  murmuring  spring,  or  beneath  the  somber 
shade  of  a  thick  and  leafy  tree,  the  eye  rests  on  the  far-re- 
ceding and  hazy  distance." 

Similar  passages  may  also  be  gathered  from  the  letters  of 
St.  Basil  and  St.  Gregory,*  fathers  of  the  Greek  Church. 
And  still  earlier  instances  of  this  Christian  view  of  the  earth 
are  quoted  from  the  writings  of  a  Roman  lawyer,  Minucius 
Felix,  who  lived  in  the  beginning  of  the  third  century ;  his 
evening  rambles  on  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Ostia,  were  very  feelingly  described  in  pages 
which  have  been  preserved  to  our  own  time.  The  Christian 
Church  possessed  a  most  rich  inheritance  in  the  Hebrew  lit- 
erature ;  and  the  constant  use  of  the  Psalms  of  the  Temple 
in  her  public  services  would  alone  suffice  to  produce  in  the 
minds  of  the  people  a  deep  impression  of  the  goodness  and 
majesty  of  the  Divine  Creator  as  revealed  in  his  works.  The 
Canticle  of  the  Three  Children,  composed  before  the  founda- 
tion of  Rome,  and  which  from  the  early  ages  of  Christianity 
to  the  present  hour  has  formed  a  portion  of  public  worship,  is 
an  exalted  offering  of  praise  with  which  we  are  all  familiar  : 
"  O  all  ye  works  of  the  Lord,  bless  ye  the  Lord,  praise  him 
and  magnify  him  forever !"  And  in  the  sublime  anthem  of 
the  Te  Deum  we  have  another  earnest,  unceasing  expression 
of  a  feeling  inseparable  from  Christianity  :  "  We  praise  thee, 
O  God,  we  acknowledge  thee  to  be  the  Lord.  Heaven  and 

*  Part  XXVII.  These  translations  have  all  been  transcribed  from  M. 
de  Humboldt's  pages. 


22  INTRODUCTION. 

earth  are  full  of  the  majesty  of  thy  glory  !"  It  is,  indeed,  re- 
vealed truth  only  which  has  opened  to  the  human  mind  views 
of  the  creation  at  all  worthy  of  its  dignity.  It  is  from  her 
teaching  that  we  learn  to  appreciate  justly  the  different  works 
of  the  Deity,  in  their  distinctive  characters,  to  allot  to  each 
its  own  definite  position.  There  is  no  confusion  in  her  views. 
She  shows  us  the  earth,  and  the  creatures  which  people  it,  in 
a  clear  light.  She  tells  us  positively  that  all  things  are  but 
the  works  of  His  holy  hands — the  visible  expression  of  an 
Almighty  wisdom,  and  power,  and  love  ;  and  as  she  speaks, 
the  idle  phantoms  of  the  human  imagination,  the  puerile  dei- 
ties of  the  heathen  world,  the  wretched  fallacies  of  presump- 
tuous philosophy  vanish  and  flee  away  from  the  face  of  the 
earth,  like  the  mists  and  shadows  of  night  at  the  approach  of 
the  light  of  day.  Not  one  of  the  thousand  banners  of  idol- 
atry, whether  unfurled  on  the  mountain-tops,  or  waving  in  the 
groves,  or  floating  on  the  streams,  but  falls  before  her.  She 
points  out  to  man  his  own  position,  and  that  of  all  about  him  ; 
he  is  lord  of  the  earth  and  of  all  its  creatures.  The  herb  of  the 
field,  the  trees  of  the  wood,  the  fowls  of  the  air,  the  fishes  of 
the  sea — every  living  thing  that  moveth  upon  earth — all  have 
been  given  into  his  hand — all  are  subject  to  his  dominion — 
all  are  the  gifts  of  Jehovah. 

But,  ere  time  had  enabled  Christian  civilization  and  its  en- 
nobling lessons  to  make  any  positive  progress,  or  to  produce 
any  lasting  impression  on  the  character  of  general  literature, 
the  Empire  was  overwhelmed  by  races  wholly  barbarous.  A 
period  of  darkness  and  disorder  ensued,  during  which  the  very 
art  of  writing  seems  to  have  been  all  but  forgotten.  A  few  rude, 
unfinished  sketches  were  all  that  could  be  expected  from  such 
an  age,  and  in  these  man  himself  would  naturally  engross  the 
attention.  In  societies  only  half  civilized,  man,  as  an  indi- 
vidual, must  always  fill  a  bolder  and  more  prominent  position 
than  in  those  where  order,  and  knowledge,  and  truth  are  more 
widely  diffused  ;  he  has  in  such  a  state  of  things  far  greater 
power  for  evil  over  his  fellows  ;  every  step  becomes  of  im- 
mediate importance,  for  it  is  associated  with  a  thousand  perils  ; 


INTRODUCTION  23 

every  turn  of  private  passion,  unchecked  by  vital  vigor  of  law 
or  religion,  may  work  out  a  fatal  tragedy,  and  consequently 
the  individual,  either  as  tyrant,  or  victim,  or  champion,  ex- 
cites unceasing  fear  and  flattery,  or  pity  and  commiseration, 
or  gratitude  and  admiration.  Wild  legends,  now  warlike,  now 
religious  in  spirit,  naturally  belonged  to  those  centuries.  No 
doubt  the  birds  of  heaven  sang,  and  the  flowers  of  the  field 
bloomed  in  those  ages  ;  but  we  have  scanty  record  of  their  ex- 
istence ;  the  eye  of  man  was  fixed  on  darker  objects  ;  his  ear 
was  filled  with  fiercer  sounds. 

Slowly,  however,  civilization  and  social  order — those  nat- 
ural accessories  of  the  Christian  faith — were  making  prog- 
ress ;  but  the  most  striking  efforts  of  reviving  intelligence  at 
this  period  did  not  assume  the  shape  of  letters.  That  latent 
poetical  spirit,  never  wholly  extinct  in  the  human  heart, 
sought  for  development  during  those  ages  through  other  chan- 
nels. Under  the  hand  of  the  religious  architect,  pious,  though 
lamentably  superstitio/us,  the  dignity  of  the  forest  was  once 
more  embodied  in  novel  and  imposing  labors  of  art ;  scarce  a 
fine  effect  of  the  branching  woods  which  was  not  successfully 
repeated  with  great  richness  of  detail  in  Gothic  stone.  The 
beauty  of  the  vegetation,  in  its  noblest  forms,  must  have  been 
deeply  impressed  on  the  hearts  of  the  men  who,  with  Teu- 
tonic patience,  raised  those  magnificent  piles.  Every  Amer- 
ican familiar  with  thejbeautiful  and  varied  effects  of  old  forests 
of  blended  growth,  where  fir  and  pine  cross  their  evergreen 
branches  amid  the  lighter  tracery  of  deciduous  trees,  may 
have  often  noted  some  single  fir,  rising  tall  and  spire-like  far 
above  the  lesser  grove,  into  the  light  of  sun  and  star  ;  some 
similar  evergreen,  rooted  in  the  soil  of  Europe,  was  doubt- 
less the  original  of  that  most  beautiful  of  Christian  architec- 
tural forms,  the  church  spire  of  the  Middle  Ages : 


1     "  Preacher  to  the  wise, 
Less'ning  from  earth  her  spiral  honors  rise, 
Till,  as  a  spear-point  rear' J,  the  topmost  spray, 
Points  to  the  Eden  of  eternal  day."* 

*  Camoens. 


24  INTRODUCTION 

It  was  about  the  time  when  those  mediaeval  churches  were 
rising  from  the  towns  of  central  Europe — slow  in  their  stately 
growth  as  the  forest  whence  their  forms  were  drawn — that 
Troubadour  and  Trouvere,  Minstrel  and  Minnesinger,  began 
their  wanderings  in  the  same  region ;  and  amid  the  strange 
medley  of  human  passion  and  religious  superstition  to  which 
they  gave  utterance,  some  strains  of  great  natural  sweetness 
were  heard.  It  was  then  that  the  returning  cuckoo  was  greet- 
ed in  England  with  song  : 

"  Sumer  is  ycumen  in, 
Lhude  sing  cuccu !" 

It  was  then  that  merle  and  mavis,  nightingale  and  lark,  were 
saluted  with  responsive  music  by  the  listening  poet ;  it  was 
then  that  daisy  and  lily,  la  douce  Marguerite  and  the  Flower 
of  Light,  were  so  fondly  cherished  and  so  highly  honored  ; 
it  was  then  that  the  May-poJe  was  raised  in  the  castle  court 
and  on  the  village  green,  and  that  high  and  low,  like  Arcite, 
hurried  a-field  on  May-day  morning  "  for  to  fetch  some 
grene."  It  was  then,  in  short,  that  the  blossoms  and  the 
fowls  of  Europe  were  first  sung  in  the  modern  dialects  of  the 
people. 

Those  old  wandering  minstrels,  troubadour  and  minnesing- 
er, were,  in  fact,  the  heralds  of  reviving  letters ;  they  struck 
the  first  sparks  of  national,  indigenous  literary  feeling  in  its  mod- 
ern forms.  It  was  from  them  that  Petrarch  and  ©ante  learned 
to  speak  the  language  of  the  living,  rather  than  that  of  the 
dead.  It  was  from  their  example  that  those  great  poets  took, 
what  was  then  a  very  daring  step,  and,  rejecting  the  Latin, 
chose  their  native  language  as  a  medium  of  compositions  of 
the  highest  order.  How  they  succeeded,  the  whole  world 
knows  ;  and  among  the  writings  of  those  great  Italian  masters 
there  are  very  beautiful  descriptive  passages,  a  few  of  which, 
in  the  form  of  translations,  may  be  found  in  the  later  pages  of 
this  volume.* 

Fortunately  for  all  who  speak  the  English  tongue,  Chau- 

*  See  Parts  XXIX.  and  XXX. 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

cer,  "the  morning  star"  of  British  verse,  as  he  has  been 
hailed  by  Denham,  followed  in  the  track  of  the  Italian  poets  ; 
the  fountains  of  his  inspiration  flowed  fresh  and  full  from  his 
native  soil.  How  keenly  alive  was  he  to  every  detail  of  nat- 
ural beauty  in  the  green  fields  of  England  ;  to  the  sweetness 
and  freshness  of  the  opening  daisy;  of  the  growing  grass  ; 
of  the  unfolding  leaf,  with  its  "  glad,  light  green !"  He  was 
followed  by  others  with  the  same  happy  instincts,  and  a  love 
of  nature  was  thus  infused  into  the  earliest  literature  of  our 
language.  All  the  great  poets  of  the  sixteenth,  and  those  of 
the  best  years  of  the  seventeenth  centuries,  were  more  or  less 
under  the  influence  of  this  spirit — Shakspeare,  Jonson,  Spen- 
ser, Drayton,  the  Fletchers,  Milton,  Cowley,  Denham,  Dry- 
den,  Walker,  Herbert,  Herrick.  How  long  is  the  noble  roll 
of  names  of  that  period,  who  have  all  contributed  something 
to  our  wealth  in  this  way !  There  came  a  moment,  however, 
when  a  colder  and  more  artificial  style  acquired  in  England 
the  same  influence  which  long  proved  so  paralyzing  in  France, 
when  poets  were  content  to  copy  those  who  had  preceded 
them  ;  when  they  trod  the  London  pavement  and  the  coffee- 
house floors  much  more  frequently  than  the  narrow  paths 
about  the  fields.  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  remarked,  that  during 
a  period  of  sixty  years,  between  the  publication  of  "  Paradise 
Lost"  and  that  of  the  "  Seasons,"  all  the  poetry  of  England,  with 
the  exception  of  a  passage  or  two,  does  not  contain  "  a  single 
new  image  of  external  nature."  Poets  were  courtiers  in 
those  times,  or  they  aimed  at  becoming  so  ;  they  prided 
themselves  upon  a  neatly  turned  compliment,  upon  a  far- 
fetched dedication  ;  they  were  wits — they  were  pretty  fellows 
about  town  ;  like  Horace  Walpole's  lively  old  friend,  Madame 
du  Deffand,  they  could  very  conscientiously  avow,  "  Je  rfaime 
pas  les  plaisirs  innocents  /" 

Mr.  Wordsworth  dates  the  dawn  of  the  modern  era  in  po- 
etry from  the  appearance  of  the  "  Seasons,"  which  were  first 
published  in  the  year  1726.  A  single  great  work  will  no  doubt 
often  produce  surprisingly  general  effects  in  the  literary 
world,  when  the  atmosphere  is  prepared  for  it.  And  such 

2 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

was  the  case  when  Thomson  wrote.  Many  different  influ- 
ences were  gradually  combining  to  work  out  the  same  result. 
A  high  degree  of  general  education,  in  connection  with  the 
prevalence  of  Christian  religious  truth,  must  always  naturally 
dispose  the  mind  to  a  more  just  appreciation  of  the  works  of 
the  Deity,  as  compared  with  the  works  of  man.  The  wider 
our  views  of  each,  the  higher  will  be  our  admiration  of  the 
first.  We  say  general  civilization,  however ;  for  where  the 
advantages  of  education  are  confined  to  a  small  class,  that 
class  will  usually  be  found  only  in  the  large  towns  of  a  coun- 
try, and  its  tastes  and  habits  will  therefore  necessarily  be 
more  or  less  artificial.  The  rustic  population,  in  such  a  state 
of  things,  will  be  rude,  coarse,  and  deemed  only  fit  for  ridi- 
cule and  burlesque.  The  poet  of  such  a  period  has  no  sooner 
tried  his  strength,  than  he  is  eager  to  turn  his  back  on  the 
fields ;  he  hurries  "  to  town,"  to  the  center  of  all  enlighten- 
ment, and  soon  becomes  metamorphosed  into  a  cockney  or  a 
courtier.  In  their  day  Paris  and  London  have  probably 
thus  swallowed  up  many  a  man  of  genius,  country  born  and 
country  bred,  who,  had  he  remained  in  his  native  haunts, 
could  never  have  failed  in  real  honest  feeling  for  that  natural 
beauty  which,  like  the  mercy  of  God,  is  new  every  morning. 
Had  Cowper  lived  all  his  days  in  Bond  Street  he  never  could 
have  written  the  "Task."  Conceive  a  man  like  Crabbe,  or 
Burns,  transported  for  life  to  Grub  Street,  and  imagine  what 
would  be  the  inevitable  effects  of  the  change  on  a  spirit  like 
theirs.  But  a  general  diffusion  of  civilization  produces  an 
entirely  different  state  of  things.  An  intellectual  man  may 
now  live  most  of  his  days  in  the  country  without  disgrace 
and  without  annoyance.  He  may  read  and  he  may  write 
there  with  pleasure  and  with  impunity.  A  wide  horizon  for 
observation  opens  about  him  to-day  in  the  fields,  as  else- 
where. Science,  commerce,  painting,  sculpture,  horticulture 
— all  the  higher  arts,  in  fact — are  so  many  noble  laborers 
hourly  toiling  for  his  benefit,  as  well  as  for  that  of  the  towns- 
man. General  education  is  also  daily  enlarging  the  public 
audience,  and  thus  giving  more  healthful  play  to  diversity  of 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

tastes.  No  single  literary  class  is  likely,  in  such  a  state  of 
things,  to  usurp  undue  authority  over  others — to  impose  aca- 
demical fetters  on  even  the  humblest  of  its  cotemporaries. 
Whatever  is  really  natural  and  really  worthy,  may  therefore 
hope  in  the  end  for  a  share  of  success.  But  we  conceive 
that  it  would  still  be  possible  for  all  these  circumstances  to 
unite  in  favoring  the  literature  of  the  age,  without  leading  it 
into  those  views  of  the  natural  world  which  have  so  decid- 
edly marked  its  course  in  our  own  day,  without  producing  at 
least  results  so  striking,  a  change  so  marked.  It  is,  we  be- 
lieve, the  union  of  Christianity  with  this  general  diffusion  of 
a  high  degree  of  civilization  which  has  led  us  to  a  more 
deeply  felt  appreciation  of  the  works  of  the  creation.  It  has 
always  been  from  lands  blessed  with  the  light  of  revealed  truth 
that  the  choir  of  praise  has  risen  with  the  greatest  fullness. 
And  it  would  be  easy,  also,  to  prove  that  those  individual 
writers  who  have  sung  the  natural  beauty  of  the  earth  with 
the  greatest  fervor  of  feeling  and  truth  of  description  have 
been  more  or  less  actuated  by  a  religious  spirit.  Take  as 
examples  the  poets  of  our  own  language  ;  how  many  of  those 
who  have  touched  upon  similar  subjects  were  moved  by  what 
may  be  called  Christian  impulses  ?  Go  back  as  far  even  as 
Chaucer  and  Dunbar,  Shakspeare  and  Spenser,  Milton  and 
Fletcher ;  if  these  were  not  all  what  is  called  religious  men, 
yet  the  writings  of  even  Chaucer  and  Shakspeare,  though 
tainted  with  the  grossness  of  their  times,  were  the  works  of 
believing  Christian  hearts.  If  we  look  nearer  to  our  own 
day,  from  the  period  of  Thomson  and  Dyer  to  the  present 
hour,  the  fact  is  self-evident,  and  needs  no  repetition  of 
names.  There  have  been  instances,  no  doubt,  among  the 
greater  English  poets  of  the  last  fifty  years,  where  success  in 
natural  description  has  been  combined  with  an  avowed  or  im- 
plied religious  skepticism.  But  no  man  can  be  born  and  bred 
in  a  Christian  community,  taught  in  its  schools,  governed  by 
its  laws,  educated  by  its  literature,  without  unconsciously, 
and,  as  it  were,  in  spite  of  himself,  imbibing  many  influences 
of  the  prevailing  faith.  Even  the  greatest  English  poets  of 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

the  skeptical  school  are  forced  to  resort  to  what  appears  to 
the  reader  a  combination  of  an  imperfect,  enfeebled  Chris- 
tianity with  an  incomplete  and  lifeless  Paganism.  Their 
views  of  the  material  world  almost  invariably  assume  a 
Greek  aspect ;  and  we  must  adhere  to  the  opinion,  that,  in 
spite  of  their  florid  character,  their  grace  of  outline,  their 
richness  of  detail,  these  fall  unspeakably,  immeasurably  short 
of  the  grandeur,  the  healthful  purity,  the  living  beauty,  the 
power  and  tenderness  of  feeling  which  belong  to  revealed 
truth.  With  the  Greek,  as  with  so  many  others,  man  was, 
more  or  less  palpably,  the  great  center  of  all.  Not  so  with 
the  Christian  ;  while  Revelation  allots  to  him  a  position  ele- 
vated and  ennobling,  she  also  reads  him  the  lowliest  lessons. 
No  system  connects  man  by  more  close  and  endearing  ties, 
with  the  earth  and  all  its  holds,  than  Christianity,  which 
leaves  nothing  to  chance,  nothing  to  that  most  gloomy  and 
most  impossible  of  chimeras,  fate,  but  refers  all  to  Providence, 
to  the  omniscient  wisdom  of  a  God  who  is  love  ;  but  at  the 
same  time  she  warns  him  that  he  is  himself  but  the  steward 
and  priest  of  the  Almighty  Father,  responsible  for  the  use  of 
every  gift ;  she  plainly  proclaims  the  fact,  that  even  here  on 
earth,  within  his  own  domains,  his  position  is  subordinate. 
The  highest  relation  of  every  created  object  is  that  which 
connects  it  with  its  Maker :  "  For  thy  pleasure  they  are,  and 
were  created  !"  This  sublime  truth  Christianity  proclaims 
to  us,  and  there  is  breadth  enough  in  this  single  point  to 
make  up  much  of  the  wide  difference  between  the  Christian 
and  the  heathen  poet.  And  which  of  these  two  views  is  the 
most  ennobling,  each  of  us  may  easily  decide  for  himself. 
Look  at  the  simple  flower  of  the  field  ;  behold  it  blooming  at 
the  gracious  call  of  the  Almighty,  beaming  with  the  light  of 
heavenly  mercy,  fragrant  with  the  holy  blessing,  and  say  if 
it  be  not  thus  more  noble  to  the  eye  of  reason,  dearer  to  the 
heart,  than  when  fancy  dyed  its  petals  with  the  blood  of  a 
fabled  Adonis  or  Hyacirithus  ?  Go  out  and  climb  the  highest 
of  all  the  Alps,  or  stand  beside  the  trackless,  ever-moving  sea, 
or  look  over  the  broad,  unpeopled  prairie,  and  tell  us  whence 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

it  is  that  the  human  spirit  is  so  deeply  moved  by  the  spectacle 
which  is  there  unfolded  to  its  view.  Go  out  at  night — stand 
uncovered  beneath  the  star-lit  heavens,  and  acknowledge  the 
meaning  of  the  silence  which  has  closed  your  lips.  Ts  it  not 
an  overpowering,  heartfelt,  individual  humility,  blended  with 
an  instinctive  adoration  or  acknowledgment  in  every  faculty 
of  the  holy  majesty  of  the  One  Living  God,  in  whom  we  live, 
and  move,  and  have  our  being  ?  And  where,  at  such  a  mo- 
ment, are  all  the  gods  with  which  Homer  peopled  his  narrow 
world?  An  additional  sense  of  humiliation  for  the  race  to 
which  we  belong,  and  which  could  so  long  endure  fallacies 
so  puerile,  weighs  on  the  spirit  at  the  question,  and  with  a 
greater  than  Homer  we  exclaim :  "  O  worship  the  Lord  in 
the  beauty  of  holiness  ;  let  all  the  earth  stand  in  awe  of 
Him !" 

A  distinguished  living  poet  of  England,  Mr.  Keble,  has  a 
very  pleasing  theory  in  connection  with  this  subject.  In  his 
view,  the  three  great  divisions  of  poetry  belong  naturally  to  three 
successive  periods  of  the  world :  the  epic  flows  from  the  heroic 
youth  of  a  race  ;  the  drama,  with  its  varied  scenes  and  rival 
interests,  from  the  ambitious  maturity  of  middle  age ;  while, 
as  civilization  advances  farther  in  the  cycle  of  time,  the  hu- 
man heart  oppressed  with  the  strife  of  passion,  the  eye 
wearied  with  the  restless  pageant  of  vanity,  turn  instinctively 
to  more  simple  and  more  healthful  sources  of  enjoyment,  and 
seeking  refeshment  from  the  sweetness  and  beauty  of  the  nat- 
ural world,  give  expression  to  the  feeling  in  the  poetry  of 
rural  life.  In  this  sense  the  verse  of  the  fields — the  rural 
hymn — becomes  the  last  form  of  song,  instead  of  being  the 
first.  Something  similar  to  this  has  doubtless  often  been  the 
course  of  individual  life  ;  many  of  the  greatest  minds  and  best 
hearts  of  our  race  have  successively  gone  through  these  dif- 
ferent stages — the  aspiring  dream  of  youthful  enthusiasm, 
the  struggle  in  the  crowded  arena  of  life,  and  the  placid  calm 
of  thoughtful  repose  and  voluntary  retirement  under  the  shade 
of  the  vine  and  the  fig-tree.  Happy  will  it  be  for  the  civil- 
ized world,  for  these  latter  ages  of  the  earth,  if  such  should 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

indeed  prove  the  general  course  of  the  race !  Most  happy 
will  it  be  for  us,  the  latest  born  of  the  nations,  we  who  belong 
to  the  aged  times  of  the  world,  if  such  should  be  our  own 
direction ! 

Probably  there  never  was  a  people  needing  more  than  our- 
selves all  the  refreshments,  all  the  solace,  to  be  derived  from 
country  life  in  its  better  forms.  The  period  at  which  we  have 
arrived  is  rife  with  high  excitement ;  the  fever  of  commercial 
speculations,  the  agitation  of  political  passions,  the  mental  ex- 
ertion required  by  the  rapid  progress  of  science,  by  the  ever- 
recurring  controversies  of  philosophy,  and,  above  all,  that  spirit 
of  personal  ambition  and  emulation  so  wearing  upon  the  indi- 
vidual, and  yet  so  very  common  in  America,  all  unite  to  pro- 
duce a  combination  of  circumstances  rendering  it  very  desir- 
able that  we  should  turn,  as  frequently  as  possible,  into  paths 
of  a  more  quiet  and  peaceful  character.  We  need  repose  of 
mind.  We  need  the  shade  of  the  trees  and  the  play  of 
healthful  breezes  to  refresh  our  heated  brow.  We  need  the 
cup  of  water,  pure  from  the  spring,  to  cool  our  parched  lips  ; 
we  need  the  flowers,  to  soothe  without  flattery ;  the  birds,  to 
cheer  without  excitement ;  we  need  the  view  of  the  green 
turf,  to  teach  us  the  humility  of  the  grave ;  and  we  need  the 
view  of  the  open  heavens,  to  tell  us  where  all  human  hopes 
should  center. 

Happily,  in  spite  of  the  eagerness  with  which  our  people 
throw  themselves  upon  every  rallying  point  of  excitement,  they 
are  by  no  means  wanting  in  feeling  for  a  country  life.  It  is 
true  they  delight  in  building  up  towns  ;  but  still,  a  large  por- 
tion of  those  who  have  a  choice  look  forward  to  some  fu- 
ture day  when  a  country  roof  shall  cover  their  heads.  They 
hurry  to  the  cities  to  grow  rich  ;  but  very  many  take  pleasure 
in  returning  at  a  later  hour  to  their  native  village,  or  at  least 
put  up  a  suburban  cottage,  with  a  garden  and  grass-plat  of 
their  own.  The  rural  aspect  which  has  been  given  to  our 
villages  and  smaller  country  towns,  and  which  is  often  pre- 
served with  some  pains — the  space  between  the  buildings, 
the  trees  lining  the  streets  and  shading  every  wall,  with  the 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

little  door-yard  of  flowers — all  these  are  evidences  of  healthful 
instincts.  But  another,  and  very  striking  proof  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  love  of  nature  in  our  people  may  be  found  in  the 
character  of  American  verse.  A  very  large  proportion  of  the 
poetical  writing  of  the  country  partakes  of  this  spirit ;  how 
many  noble  passages,  how  many  pleasing  lines,  will  immedi- 
ately recur  to  the  mind  as  the  remark  suggests  itself;  scarce 
a  poet  of  note  among  us  who  has  not  contributed  largely  to 
our  national  riches  in  this  way;  and  one  often  meets,  in  some 
village  paper  or  inferior  magazine,  with  very  pleasing  verses 
of  this  kind,  from  pens  quite  unknown.  Probably  if  an  expe- 
rienced critic  were  called  upon  to  point  out  some  general 
characteristic  of  American  poetry,  more  marked  than  any 
other,  he  would,  without  hesitation,  declare  it  to  be  a  deeply- 
felt  appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  the  natural  world. 

But  although  as  a  people  we  have  given  ample  evidence  of 
an  instinctive  love  of  nature,  yet  we  have  only  made  a  beginning 
in  these  pleasant  paths.  There  still  remains  much  for  us  to 
do.  This  natural  taste,  like  all  others,  is  capable  of  much 
healthful  cultivation  ;  it  would  be  easy  to  name  many  steps  by 
which,  both  as  individuals  and  as  communities,  it  lies  in  our 
power  to  advance  the  national  progress  in  this  course  ;  but  to 
do  so  would  carry  us  beyond  the  limits  allotted  to  our  present 
task.  It  is  hoped,  however,  that  we  may  be  forgiven  for  de- 
taining the  reader  a  moment  longer,  while  we  allude  at  least 
to  one  view  of  the  subject  which  is  not  altogether  without  im- 
portance. The  social  condition  of  Christendom  has,  in  many 
respects,  very  materially  changed  within  the  last  fifty  years. 
Town  and  country  no  longer  fill  what  for  ages  seemed  the  un- 
alterable relative  position  of  each.  A  countryman  is  no  lon- 
ger inevitably  a  boor,  nor  a  townsman  necessarily  a  cockney ; 
all  have,  in  their  turn,  trod  the  pavement  and  the  green  turf. 
This  is  especially  the  case  in  America  ;  the  life,  the  move- 
ment in  which  our  people  delight,  is  constantly  bringing  all 
classes  into  contact,  one  with  another,  and  diffusing  the  same 
influences  throughout  the  entire  population.  Something  of 
that  individuality  which  gives  interest  and  variety  to  the  face 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

of  society  is  lost  in  this  way  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  we  gain 
many  facilities  for  general  improvement  by  these  means.  The 
interchange  between  town  and  country  has  become  rapid, 
ceaseless,  regular,  as  the  returns  of  dawn  and  dusk.  But  yet, 
in  spite  of  the  unbroken  communication,  the  perpetual  inter- 
mingling, there  still  remains  to  each  a  distinctive,  inalienable 
character  ;  the  moving  spirit  of  the  town  must  always  con- 
tinue artificial,  while  that  of  the  country  is,  by  a  happy  neces- 
sity, more  natural.  We  believe  that  the  moment  has  come 
when  American  civilization  may  assume,  in  this  respect,  a 
new  aspect.  The  wonderful  increase  of  commercial  and 
manufacturing  luxury,  which  is  characteristic  of  the  age, 
must  inevitably  produce  a  degree  of  excess  in  the  cities  ; 
all  the  follies  of  idle  ostentation  and  extravagant  expenditure 
will,  as  a  matter  of  course,  flourish  in  such  an  atmosphere, 
until,  as  they  expand  right  and  left,  they  overshadow  many 
things  of  healthier  growth,  and  give  a  false  glare  of  coloring 
to  the  whole  society  which  fosters  them.  There  are  many 
reasons  why  our  own  towns  are  especially  in  danger  from  this 
state  of  things  ;  they  have  no  Past ;  they  lack  Experience  ; 
Time  for  them  has  no  individual  teachings  beyond  those  of 
yesterday ;  there  are  no  grave  monuments  of  former  genera- 
tions standing  in  the  solemn  silence  of  a  thousand  warning 
years  along  their  streets. 

Probably  there  never  has  been  a  social  condition  in  which 
the  present  is  more  absolutely  absorbing,  more  encroaching, 
in  fact,  than  in  our  American  towns.  The  same  influences 
may  extend  into  the  country  ;  but  it  is  impossible  for  them  to 
be  equally  powerful  in  the  open  fields,  where  they  are  weak- 
ened by  the  want  of  concentration,  and  by  many  counter- 
acting circumstances.  The  situation  of  the  countryman  is  in 
this  sense  favorable  ;  he  is  surrounded  by  great  natural  teach- 
ers, by  noble  monitors,  in  the  works  of  the  Deity ;  many  are 
the  salutary  lessons  to  be  learned  on  the  mountain-tops,  with- 
in the  old  groves  beside  the  flowing  stream.  The  everlasting 
hills — the  ancient  woods — these  are  his  monuments — these 
tell  him  of  the  past,  and  not  a  seed  drops  from  his  hand  but 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

prophesies  of  the  future.  The  influences  which  surround 
the  countryman  are  essentially  ennobling,  elevating,  civil- 
izing, in  fact.  Strange  as  the  remark  might  have  appeared  a 
hundred  years  ago,  we  shall  venture  deliberately  to  repeat  it 
at  the  present  hour:  We  conceive  that  the  spirit  which  per- 
vades country  life  to-day,  to  be  more  truly  civilizing  in  its  na- 
ture than  that  which  glitters  in  our  towns.  All  that  is  really 
desirable  of  the  facilities  of  life  may  now  be  readily  procured 
in  the  fields,  while  the  excesses  of  luxury  and  frivolous  fash- 
ion are  more  easily  avoided  there.  Many  different  elements 
are  blended  in  the  composition  of  true  elegance,  and  some  of 
these  are  of  a  very  homely,  substantial  nature  ;  plain  common 
sense,  and  even  a  vein  of  sterner  wisdom  are  requisite  ;  that 
moderation  which  avoids  excess  is  absolutely  indispensable  ; 
order  and  harmony  of  combination  are  needed ;  dignity  and 
self-respect  are  essentials  ;  natural  feeling  must  be  there, 
with  all  its  graceful  shades  of  deference  and  consideration  for 
the  rights  and  tastes  of  others  ;  intellectual  strength,  which 
has  no  sympathy  with  the  merely  vapid  and  frivolous,  is  a 
matter  of  course ;  and  while  cheerfulness  and  gayety,  easy 
and  unforced  as  the  summer  breezes,  should  not  fail,  yet  a 
spirit  of  repose  is  equally  desirable ;  it  is  evident,  also,  that  a 
healthful  moral  tone  is  requisite,  since,  where  this  is  wanting, 
the  semblance  of  it  is  invariably  assumed ;  and  to  all  these 
must  be  added  that  high  finish  of  culture  which  years  and  re- 
flection can  alone  give.  What  element  is  there  among  these 
which  may  not  be  readily  fostered  in  country  life  ?  On  the 
other  hand,  that  very  concentration  which  was  formerly  so 
favorable  to  the  progress  of  the  towns,  is  now  producing  in- 
jurious effects  by  leading  to  excesses,  and  perversion  of 
healthful  tastes.  The  horizon  of  the  townsman  becomes  fic- 
titiously narrowed ;  he  needs  a  wider  field  for  observation — 
greater  space  for  movement — more  leisure  for  reflection.  He 
learns  to  attach  too  much  importance  by  far  to  the  trappings  of 
life  ;  he  has  forgotten,  in  short,  the  old  adage  :  "Non  e  fabito 
che  fa  il  monaco  /"  It  can  scarcely,  therefore,  be  an  error 
of  judgment  to  believe  that  while  in  past  generations  thu 

2* 


34  INTRODUCTION. 

country  has  received  all  its  wisdom  from  the  town,  the  mo- 
ment has  come  when  in  American  society  many  of  the  higher 
influences  of  civilization  may  rather  be  sought  in  the  fields, 
when  we  may  learn  there  many  valuable  lessons  of  life,  and 
particularly  all  the  happy  lessons  of  simplicity. 


I. 

Sty 


charming  fairy  tale  of  Chaucer  has  never  yet,  it  is 
-  believed,  been  reprinted  entire  in  America.  The  poem, 
complete,  in  its  quaint,  original  garb,  has  been  placed  among 
these  selections  with  the  hope  that  its  intrinsic  beauty  and  its 
rarity  may  alike  prove  sources  of  interest  to  the  reader.  Un- 
fortunately there  is  much  of  Chaucer  which  will  not  bear  to 
be  generally  read  —  much  against  which  we  are  justly  cau- 
tioned. But  the  grossness  with  which  he  is  reproached  must 
have  been  rather  the  fault  of  the  age  to  which  he  belonged, 
than  of  the  man  himself,  for  the  passages  open  to  us  are  full 
of  sweetness  and  delicacy,  so  fresh  and  original,  so  quaintly 
fanciful,  so  altogether  delightful,  that  one  can  never  cease  to 
deplore  that  all  his  pages  should  not  be  equally  fair  and  clean. 
Here,  however,  we  have  a  complete  work  of  the  old  master 
quite  free  from  objection  ;  in  this  instance  the  delicacy  of  the 
fancy  appears  to  have  shielded  him  from  the  prevailing  coarse- 


36         THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF. 

ness  of  the  period  in  which  he  wrote.  The  uncouth  old  spell- 
ing- need  not  deprive  any  one  of  the  pleasure  of  enjoying  the 
poem,  as  a  few  minutes'  practice  will  accustom  the  eye  and 
the  ear  to  the  strangeness  of  the  orthography  and  rhythm.  It 
would  have  been  very  easy  to  obviate  those  last  obstacles  en- 
tirely by  giving  the  reader  Dryden's  version,  instead  of  the 
original ;  but  there  are  a  thousand  charming  touches  in  Chau- 
cer quite  peculiar  to  himself,  and  which  Dryden,  with  all  his 
higher  polish,  could  never  really  improve.  Every  original 
work  of  a  man  of  genius,  even  when  imperfect  and  faulty, 
must  always  possess  a  life  and  reality  which  no  imitation, 
even  the  most  finished,  can  hope  to  equal ;  and  in  this,  as  in 
every  other  instance,  we  have  preferred  carrying  our  bucket 
to  the  fountain  head.  Let  us  hope  the  reader  will  enjoy  the 
draught  offered  to  him  from 

"  Dan  Chaucer,  well  of  English  undefiled." 


THE  FLOWER  AND  THE  LEAF. 

ARGUMENT. 

A  gentlewoman  out  of  an  arbour  in  a  grove,  seetli  a  great  companie  of  knights  and  ladies  In  a 
daunce  upon  the  greene  grasse  :  the  which  being  ended,  they  all  kneele  downe,  and  do  honour  to  the 
daisie,  some  to  the  flower,  and  some  to  the  leafe.  Afterward  this  gentlewoman  learneth  by  one  of 
these  ladies  the  meaning  hereof,  which  is  this  :  They  which  honour  the  floirtr,  a  thing  fading  wilh 
every  blast,  are  such  as  looke  after  beautie  and  worldly  pleasure.  But  they  that  honour  the  leafc, 
which  abideth  with  the  root,  notwithstanding  the  frosts  and  winter  stormes,  are  they  which  follow 
vertue  and  during  qualities,  without  regard  of  worldly  respects. 

Whan  that  Phebus  his  chair  of  golde  so  hie, 
Had  whirled  up  the  sterry  sky  aloft, 
And  in  the  Boole  was  entred  certainly, 
When  shoures  sweet  of  raine  descended  soft, 
Causing  the  ground  fele  times  and  oft, 
Up  for  to  give  many  an  wholsome  aire, 
And  every  plaine  was  clothed  faire 

With  new  greene,  and  maketh  small  floures 
To  springen  here  and  there  in  field  and  in  mede, 
So  very  good  and  wholsome  be  the  shoures, 
That  it  renueth  that  was  old  and  dede, 
In  winter  time ;  and  out  of  every  sede 
Springeth  the  hearbe,  so  that  every  wight 
Of  this  season  wexeth  glad  and  light, 


THE      FLOWER      A  N7  D      THE      LEAF.  37 

And  I  so  glad  of  the  season  swete 

Was  happed  thus  upon  a  certaine  night, 

As  I  lay  in  my  bed,  sleepe  full  unmete 

Was  unto  me,  but  why  that  I  ne  might 

Rest,  I  ne  wist :  for  there  n'as  earthly  wight 

As  I  suppose  had  more  herts  ease 

Than  I ;  for  I  n'ad  sicknesse  nor  disease. 

Wherefore  I  mervaile  greatly  of  my  selfe, 
That  I  so  long  withouten  sleepe  lay, 
And  up  I  rose  three  houres  after  twelfe, 
About  the  springing  of  the  daye ; 
And  I  put  on  my  geare  and  my  arraye, 
And  to  a  pleasaunt  grove  I  gan  passe, 
Long  er  the  bright  Sunne  up  risen  was. 

In  which  were  okes  great,  streight  as  a  line, 
Under  the  which  the  grasse  so  fresh  of  hew, 
Was  newly  sprong,  and  an  eight  foot  or  nine 
Every  tree  well  fro  his  fellow  grew, 
With  branches  brode,  laden  with  leves  newe 
That  sprongen  out  ayen  the  sunne-shene 
Some  very  red,  and  some  a  glad  light  grene. 

Which  as  me  thought  was  right  a  pleasant  sight, 

And  eke  the  briddes  songe  for  to  here, 

Would  have  rejoiced  any  earthly  wight, 

And  I  that  couth  not  yet  in  no  manere, 

Heare  the  nightingale  of  all  the  yeare, 

Ful  busily  herkened  with  herte  and  with  eare, 

If  I  her  voice  perceive  coud  any  where. 

And,  at  the  last,  a  path  of  little  brede 

I  found,  that  greatly  had  not  used  be, 

For  it  forgrowen  was  with  grasse  and  weede. 

That  well  unneth  a  wighte  might  it  se : 

Thought  I,  this  path  some  winder  goth,  parde ; 

And  so  I  followed,  till  it  me  brought 

To  right  a  pleasaunt  herber  well  ywrought, 

That  benched  was,  and  with  turfes  new 
Freshly  turved,  whereof  the  grene  gras, 
So  small,  so  thicke,  so  shorte,  so  fresh  of  hew, 
That  most  like  unto  green  wool  wot  I  it  was : 
The  hegge  also  that  yede  in  compas, 


38        THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF. 

And  closed  in  all  the  greene  herbere, 
With  sicamour  was  set  and  eglatere ; 

Wrethen  in  fere  so  well  and  cunningly, 

That  every  branch  and  leafe  grew  by  mesure, 

Plaine  as  a  bord,  of  an  height  by  and  by. 

I  sie  never  thing  I  you  ensure, 

So  well  done ;  for  he  that  tooke  the  cure 

It  to  make  ytrow,  did  all  his  peine 

To  make  it  passe  all  tho  that  men  have  seine. 

And  shapen  was  this  herber  roof  and  all, 
As  a  prety  parlour ;  and  also 
The  hegge  as  thicke  as  a  castle  wall, 
That  who  that  list  without,  to  stond  or  go, 
Though  he  would  all  day  prien  to  and  fro, 
He  should  not  see  if  there  were  any  wight 
Within  or  no ;  but  one  within  well  might 

Perceive  all  tho  thot  yeden  there  without 

In  the  field,  that  was  on  every  side 

Covered  with  corn  and  grasse,  that  out  of  doubt, 

Though  one  would  seeke  all  the  world  wide, 

So  rich  a  fielde  coud  not  be  espide 

On  no  coast,  as  of  the  quantity, 

For  of  all  good  thing  there  was  plenty. 

And  I  that  all  this  pleasaunt  sight  sie, 
Thought  sodainly  I  felt  so  sweet  an  aire 
Of  the  eglentere,  that  certainely, 
There  is  no  hert,  I  deme,  in  such  dispaire, 
Ne  with  thoughts  froward,  and  contraire, 
So  overlaid,  but  it  should  soon  have  bote, 
If  it  had  ones  felt  this  savour  sote. 

And  as  I  stood  and  cast  aside  mine  eie, 

I  was  ware  of  the  fairest  medler  tree, 

That  ever  yet  in  all  my  life  I  sie, 

As  full  of  blossornes  as  it  might  be, 

Therein  a  goldfinch  leaping  pretile 

Fro  bough  to  bough ;  and,  as  him  list,  he  eet 

Here  and  there  of  buds  and  floures  sweet. 

And  to  the  herber  side  was  joyning 
This  faire  tree,  of  which  I  have  you  told, 
And  at  the  last  the  bird  began  to  sing, 
Whan  he  had  eaten  what  he  eat  wold ; 


THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF.        39 

So  passing  sweetly,  that  by  manifold 

It  was  more  pleasaunt  than  I  coud  devise, 

And  whan  his  song  was  ended  in  this  wise, 

The  nightingale  with  so  merry  a  note, 

Answered  him,  that  all  the  wood  rong 

So  sodainly,  that  as  it  were  a  sote, 

I  stood  astonied,  so  was  I  with  the  song 

Thorow  ravished,  that  till  late  and  long, 

I  ne  wist  in  what  place  I  was,  ne  where ; 

And  ayen,  me  thought,  she  song  ever  by  mine  ere. 

Wherefore  I  waited  about  busily 
On  every  side,  if  I  her  might  see; 
And,  at  the  last,  I  gan  full  well  aspy 
Where  she  sat  in  a  freshe  grene  laurer  tree, 
On  the  further  side  even  right  by  me, 
That  gave  so  passing  a  delicious  smell, 
According  to  the  eglentere  full  well. 

Whereof  I  had  so  inly  great  pleasure, 
That,  as  me  thought,  I  surely  ravished  was 
Into  Paradise,  where  my  desire 
Was  for  to  be,  and  no  ferther  passe, 
As  for  that  day,  and  on  the  sote  grasse 
I  sat  me  downe,  for  as  for  mine  entent, 
The  birdes  song  was  more  convenient, 

And  more  pleasaunt  to  me  by  many  fold, 
Than  meat  or  drinke,  or  any  other  thing, 
Thereto  the  herber  was  so  fresh  and  cold, 
The  wholesome  savours  eke  so  comforting, 
That,  as  I  demed,  sith  the  beginning 
Of  the  world  was  never  scene  er  than 
So  pleasaunt  a  ground  of  none  earthly  man. 

And  as  I  sat  the  birds  hearkening  thus, 
Me  thought  that  I  heard  voices  sodainly, 
The  most  sweetest  and  most  delicious 
That  ever  any  wight  I  trow  truly 
Heard  in  their  life,  for  the  armony 
And  sweet  accord  was  in  so  good  musike, 
That  the  voice  to  angels  most  was  like. 

At  the  last,  out  of  a  grove  even  by, 

That  was  right  goodly  and  pleasaunt  to  sight, 


40  THE      FLOWER      AND      THE      LEAF 

I  sie  where  there  came  singing  lustily, 
A  world  of  ladies ;  but,  to  tell  aright 
Their  great  beauty,  it  lieth  not  in  my  might, 
Ne  their  array ;  neverthelesse  I  shall 
Tell  you  a  part,  though  I  speake  not  of  all. 

The  surcotes  white  of  velvet  wele  sitting, 

They  were  in  cladde ;  and  the  semes  echone, 

As  it  were  a  manere  garnishing, 

Was  set  with  emerauds  one  and  one, 

By  and  by ;  but  many  a  riche  stone 

Was  set  on  the  purfiles,  out  of  dout, 

Of  colors,  sieves,  and  traines  round  about. 

As  great  pearles  round  and  orient, 
Diamonds  fine,  and  rubies  red, 
And  many  another  stone  of  which  I  went 
The  names  now ;  and  everich  on  her  head 
A  rich  fret  of  gold,  which  without  dread 
Was  full  of  stately  riche  stones  set, 
And  every  lady  had  a  chapelet 

On  her  head  of  branches  fresh  and  grene, 

So  wele  wrought  and  so  marvelously 

That  it  was  a  noble  sight  to  sene, 

Some  of  laurer,  and  some  full  pleasauntly 

Had  chapelets  of  woodbind,  and  sadly 

Some  of  agnus  castus  were  also 

Chapelets  fresh ;  but  there  were  many  of  tho 

That  daunced  and  eke  song  full  soberly, 
But  all  they  yede  in  manner  of  compace, 
But  one  there  yede  in  mid  the  company, 
Sole  by  herselfe,  but  all  followed  the  pace 
That  she  kepte,  whose  heavenly  figured  face 
So  pleasaunt  was,  and  her  wele  shape  person, 
That  of  beauty  she  past  hem  everichon. 

And  more  richly  beseene,  by  many  fold, 
She  was  also  in  every  maner  thing, 
On  her  head  full  pleasaunt  to  behold, 
A  crowne  of  golde  rich  for  any  king, 
A  braunch  of  agnus  castus  eke  bearing 
In  her  hand  ;  and  to  my  sight  truly, 
She  lady  was  of  the  company. 


THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF.        41 

And  she  began  a  roundell  lustely, 
That  "  Suse  le  foyle,  devers  moy"  men  call, 
"  Siene  et  monjoly  couer  est  endormy" 
And  than  the  company  answered  all 
With  voices  sweet  entuned,  and  so  small, 
That  me  thought  it  the  sweetest  melody 
That  ever  I  heard  in  my  life  soothly. 

And  thus  they  came,  dauncing  and  singing, 

Into  the  middes  of  the  mede  echone, 

Before  the  herber  where  I  was  sitting, 

And,  God  wot,  me  thought  I  was  wel  bigone, 

For  than  I  might  avise  hem  one  by  one, 

Who  fairest  was,  who  coud  best  dance  and  sing, 

Or  who  most  womanly  was  in  all  thing. 

They  had  not  daunced  but  a  little  throw, 

When  that  I  hearde  ferre  off  sodainly, 

So  great  a  noise  of  thundering  trumpes  blow, 

As  though  it  should  have  departed  the  skie  ; 

And  after  that  within  a  while  I  sie 

From  the  same  grove  where  the  ladies  came  out, 

Of  men  of  armes  comming  such  a  rout, 

As  all  men  on  earth  had  been  assembled 
In  that  place,  wele  horsed  for  the  nones, 
Storing  so  fast,  that  all  the  earth  trembled  : 
But  for  to  speake  of  riches,  and  of  stones, 
And  men  and  horse,  I  trow  the  large  wones, 
Of  Pretir  John,  ne  all  his  tresory, 
Might  not  unneth  have  boght  the  tenth  party 

Of  their  array :  who  so  list  heare  more, 

I  shall  rehearse,  so  as  I  can,  a  lite. 

Out  of  the  grove,  that  I  spake  of  before, 

I  sie  come  first  of  all  in  their  clokes  white, 

A  company,  that  ware  for  their  delite, 

Chapelets  fresh  of  okes  seriall. 

Newly  sprong,  and  trumpets  they  were  all. 

On  every  trumpe  hanging  a  broad  banere 
Of  fine  tartarium  were  full  richely  bete ; 
Every  trumpet  his  lords  armes  bere 
About  their  neckes  with  great  pearl es  sete 
Collers  brode,  for  cost  they  would  not  lete, 


42  THE      FLOWER      AND      THE      LEAF. 

As  it  would  seem,  for  their  schochones  echone, 
Were  set  about  with  many  a  precious  stone. 

Their  horse  harneis  was  all  white  also, 
And  after  them  next  in  one  company, 
Came  kings  of  armes,  and  no  mo 
In  clokes  of  white  cloth  of  gold  richly ; 
Chapelets  of  greene  on  their  heads  on  hie, 
The  crowns  that  they  on  their  scochones  bere, 
Were  set  with  pearle,  ruby,  and  saphere, 

And  eke  great  diamonds  many  one, 

But  all  their  horse  harneis  and  other  geare, 

Was  in  a  sute  according  everichone, 

As  ye  have  heard  the  foresaid  trumpets  were  ; 

And  by  seeming  they  were  nothing  to  lere, 

And  their  guiding  they  did  so  manerly, 

And  after  hem  came  a  great  company 

Of  heraudes  and  pursevauntes  eke, 

Arraied  in  clothes  of  white  velvet, 

And  hardily  they  were  nothing  to  seke, 

How  they  on  them  should  the  harneis  set ; 

And  every  man  had  on  a  chapelet, 

Scochones  and  eke  harneis  indede, 

They  had  in  sute  of  hem  that  'fore  hem  yede. 

Next  after  hem  came  in  armour  bright, 

All  save  their  heades,  seemely  knightes  nine, 

And  every  claspe  and  naile,  as  to  my  sight, 

Of  their  harneis  were  of  red  golde  fine, 

With  cloth  of  gold,  and  furred  ermine 

Were  the  rich  trappoures  of  their  stedes  strong, 

Wide  and  large,  that  to  the  ground  did  hong. 

And  every  bosse  of  bridle  and  paitrell 
That  they  had,  was  worth,  as  I  would  wene, 
A  thousand  pound  ;  and  on  their  heades  well 
Dressed  were  crownes  of  laurer  grene, 
The  best  made  that  ever  I  had  sene, 
And  every  knight  had  after  him  riding 
Three  henchemen  on  him  awaiting. 

Of  which  every  first  on  a  short  tronchoun 
His  lordes  helme  bare,  so  richly  dight. 
That  the  worst  was  worthe  the  ransoun 


THE      FLOWER      A  X  D      THE      LEAF  43 

Of  any  king  ;  the  second  a  shield  bright 
Bare  at  his  backe ;  the  thred  bare  upright 
A  mighty  spere,  full  sharpe  ground  and  kene, 
And  every  childe  ware  of  leaves  grene 

A  fresh  chapelet  upon  his  haires  bright ; 
And  clokes  white  of  fine  velvet  they  ware, 
Their  steeds  trapped  and  raied  right 
Without  difference  as  their  lordes  were, 
And  after  hem  on  many  a  fresh  corsere, 
There  came  of  armed  knights  such  a  rout, 
That  they  bespread  the  large  field  about. 

And  all  they  ware  after  their  degrees, 
Chapelets  newe  made  of  laurer  grene, 
Some  of  the  oke,  and  some  of  other  trees, 
Some  in  their  honds  bare  boughes  shene, 
Some  of  laurer,  and  some  of  okes  keene, 
Some  of  hauthorne,  and  some  of  the  woodbind, 
And  many  mo  which  I  had  not  in  mind. 

And  so  they  came,  their  horses  freshly  stering, 
With  bloody  sownes  of  hir  trompes  loud ; 
There  sie  I  many  an  uncouth  disguising 
In  the  array  of  these  knightes  proud, 
And  at  the  last  as  evenly  as  they  coud, 
They  took  their  places  in  middes  of  the  mede, 
And  every  knight  turned  his  horses  hede 

To  his  fellow,  and  lightly  laid  a  spere 

In  the  rest ;  and  so  justes  began 

On  every  part  about  here  and  there ; 

Some  brake  his  spere,  some  drew  down  hors  and  man, 

About  the  field  astray  the  steedes  ran  ; 

And  to  behold  their  rule  and  governaunce, 

I  you  ensure  it  was  a  great  pleasaunce. 

And  so  the  justes  last  an  houre  and  more  ; 
But  tho,  that  crowned  were  in  laurer  grene. 
Wan  the  prise ;  their  dints  was  so  sore, 
That  there  was  none  ayent  hem  might  sustene, 
And  the  justing  all  was  left  off  clene, 
And  fro  their  horse  the  ninth  alight  anone, 
And  so  did  all  the  remnant  everichone. 

And  forth  they  yede  togider,  twain  and  twain, 
That  to  behold.it  was  a  worthy  sight, 


44        THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF. 

Toward  the  ladies  on  the  greene  plain, 

That  song  and  daunced  as  I  said  now  right : 

The  ladies  as  soone  as  they  goodly  might, 

They  brake  of  both  the  song  and  dance, 

And  yede  to  meet  hem  with  ful  glad  semblaunce. 

And  every  lady  took  full  womanly 
By  the  bond  a  knight,  and  forth  they  yede 
Unto  a  faire  laurer  that  stood  fast  by, 
With  levis  lade  the  boughes  of  great  brede  ; 
And  to  my  dome  there  never  was  indede 
Man,  that  had  scene  halfe  so  faire  a  tre ; 
For  underneath  there  might  it  well  have  be 

A  hundred  persons  at  their  owne  plesaunce, 
Shadowed  fro  the  heat  of  Phebus  bright, 
So  that  they  should  have  felt  no  grevaunce 
Of  raine  ne  haile  that  hem  hurte  might, 
The  savour,  eke,  rejoice  would  any  wight 
That  had  be  sicke  or  melancolious ; 
It  was  so  very  good  and  vertuous. 

And  with  great  reverence  they  enclined  low 
To  the  tree  so  soot  and  faire  of  hew ; 
And  after  that,  within  a  little  throw, 
They  began  to  sing  and  daunce  of  new, 
Some  song  of  love,  some  plaining  of  untrew, 
Environing  the  tree  that  stood  upright ; 
And  ever  yede  a  lady  and  a  knight. 

And  at  the  last  I  cast  mine  eye  aside, 

And  was  ware  of  a  lusty  company 

That  come  roming  out  of  the  field  wide, 

Hond  in  hond  a  knight  .and  a  lady ; 

The  ladies  all  in  surcotes,  that  richely 

Purfiled  were  with  many  a  rich  stone, 

And  every  knight  of  green  ware  mantles  on, 

Embrouded  well  so  as  the  surcotes  were, 
And  everich  had  a  chapelet  on  her  hed, 
Which  did  right  well  upon  the  shining  here, 
Made  of  goodly  floures  white  and  red ; 
The  knightes  eke  that  they  in  honde  led, 
In  sute  of  hem  ware  chapelets  everichone, 
And  before  hem  went  minstrels  many  one, 


THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF.        45 

As  harpes,  pipes,  lutes,  and  sautry, 

Alle  in  greene  ;  and  on  their  heades  bare 

Of  divers  floures  made  full  craftely, 

All  in  a  sute  goodly  chapelets  they  ware ; 

And  so  dauncing  into  the  mede  they  fare 

In  mid  the  which  they  found  a  tuft  that  was 

All  oversprad  with  floures  in  compas. 

Whereto  they  enclined  everichone 

With  great  reverence,  and  that  full  humbly ; 

And,  at  the  last,  there  began,  anone, 

A  lady  for  to  sing  right  womanly, 

A  bargeret  in  praising  the  daisie ; 

For  as  me  thought  among  her  notes  swete, 

She  said  "Si  douce  est  la  Margarete" 

Than  they  alle  answered  her  in  fere, 
So  passingly  well,  and  so  pleasauntly, 
That  it  was  a  blisful  noise  to  here, 
But  I  n'ot  how  it  happed,  suddainly, 
As  about  noone,  the  Sunne  so  fervently 
Waxe  hote,  that  the  prety  tender  floures 
Had  lost  the  beauty  of  hir  fresh  coloures. 

Forshronke  with  heat,  the  ladies  eke  to-brent, 

That  they  ne  wist  where  they  hem  might  bestow  ; 

The  knightes  swelt  for  lack  of  shade  nie  shent, 

And  after  that,  within  a  little  throw, 

The  wind  began  so  sturdily  to  blow, 

That  down  goeth  all  the  floures  everichone, 

So  that  in  all  the  mede  there  left  not  one ; 

Save  such  as  succoured  were  among  the  leves 
Fro  every  storme  that  might  hem  assaile, 
Growing  under  the  hegges  and  thicke  greves  ; 
And  after  that,  there  came  a  storme  of  haile, 
And  raine  in  fere,  so  that  withouten  faile, 
The  ladies  ne  the  knightes  n'ade  o  threed 
Drie  on  them,  so  dropping  was  hir  weed. 

And  whan  the  storm  was  cleane  passed  away, 
Tho  in  white  that  stood  under  the  tree, 
They  felt  nothing  of  the  great  affray, 
That  they  in  greene  without  had  in  ybe 
To  them  they  yede  for  routh  and  pite, 
Them  to  comfort  after  their  great  disease, 
So  faine  they  were  the  helplesse  for  to  ease. 


46        THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF. 

Than  I  was  ware  how  one  of  hem  in  grene 
Had  on  a  crowne  rich  and  well  sitting, 
Wherefore  I  demed  well  she  was  a  quene, 
And  tho  in  grene  on  her  were  awaiting  ; 
The  ladies  then  in  white  that  were  comming 
Toward  them,  and  the  knights  in  fere, 
Began  to  comfort  hem,  and  make  hem  chere. 

The  queen  in  white,  that  was  of  great  beauty, 
Took  by  the  hond  the  queen  that  was  in  grene, 
And  said,  "  Suster,  I  have  right  great  pity 
Of  your  annoy,  and  of  the  troublous  tene, 
Wherein  ye  and  your  company  have  bene 
So  long,  alas  !  and  if  that  it  you  please 
To  go  with  me,  I  shall  do  you  the  ease, 

"  In  all  the  pleasure  that  I  can  or  may ;" 

Whereof  the  other  humbly  as  she  might, 

Thanked  her ;  for  in  right  ill  array 

She  was  with  storm  and  heat  I  you  behight, 

And  every  lady  then  anone  right 

That  were  in  white,  one  of  them  took  in  grene 

By  the  hond,  which  whan  the  knights  had  sene, 

In  like  wise  ech  of  them  tooke  a  knight 
Cladde  in  greene,  and  forth  with  hem  they  fare, 
To  an  hegge,  where  they  anon  right 
To  make  their  justs  they  would  not  spare 
Boughes  to  hew  down,  and  eke  trees  square, 
Wherwith  they  made  hem  stately  fires  great, 
To  dry  their  clothes  that  were  ringing  weat. 

And  after  that  of  hearbes  that  there  grew, 
They  made  for  blisters  of  the  Sunne  brenning, 
Very  good  and  wholesome  ointments  new, 
Where  that  they  yede  the  sick  fast  anointing ; 
And  after  that  they  yede  about  gadering 
Pleasaunt  salades  which  they  made  hem  eat, 
For  to  refresh  their  great  unkindly  heat. 

The  lady  of  the  Leafe  than  began  to  pray 
Her  of  the  Floure  (for  so  to  my  seeming 
They  should  be  as  by  their  array) 
To  soupe  with  her,  and  eke  for  any  thing, 
That  she  should  with  her  all  her  people  bring ; 
And  she  ay  en  in  right  goodly  manere, 
Thanked  her  of  her  most  friendly  cheare, 


THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF.        47 

Saying  plainely,  that  she  would  obay 
With  all  her  hert,  all  her  commaundement ; 
And  then,  anon,  without  lenger  delay 
The  lady  of  the  Leafe  hath  one  ysent, 
For  a  palfray,  after  her  intent, 
Arrayed  well  and  faire  in  harneis  of  gold, 
For  nothing  lacked,  that  to  him  long  shold. 

And  after  that  to  all  her  company 
She  made  to  purvey  horse  and  every  thing 
That  they  needed,  and  than  full  lustily, 
Even  by  the  herber  where  I  was  sitting 
They  passed  all  so  pleasantly  singing, 
That  it  would  have  comforted  any  wight ; 
But  then  I  sie  a  passing  wonder  sight. 

For  then  the  nightingale,  that  all  the  day 
Had  in  the  laurer  sate,  and  did  her  might 
The  whole  service  to  sing  longing  to  May, 
All  sodainly  began  to  take  her  flight ; 
And  to  the  lady  of  the  Leafe  forthright 
She  flew,  and  set  her  on  her  hond  softly, 
Which  was  a  thing  I  marveled  of  greatly. 

The  goldfinch  eke,  that  fro  the  medler  tree 
Was  fled  for  heat  into  the  bushes  cold, 
Unto  the  lady  of  the  Flower  gan  flee, 
And  on  her  hond  he  sit  him  as  he  wold, 
And  pleasauntly  his  winges  gan  to  fold  ; 
And  for  to  sing  they  pained  hem  both  as  sore, 
As  they  had  do  of  all  the  day  before. 

And  so  these  ladies  rode  forth  a  great  pace, 
And  all  the  rout  of  knightes  eke  in  fere ; 
And  I  that  had  seen  all  this  wonder  case, 
Thought  I  would  assay  in  some  manere, 
To  know  fully  the  trouth  of  this  matere ; 
And  what  they  were  that  rode  so  pleasantly  : 
And  whan  they  were  the  herber  passed  by, 

I  drest  me  forth,  and  happed  to  mete,  anone, 

Right  a  faire  lady,  I  do  you  ensure  ; 

And  she  came  riding  by  herselfe  alone, 

Alle  in  white,  with  semblance  ful  demure , 

I  salued  her,  and  bad  good  aventure 

Might  her  befall,  as  I  coud  most  humbly ; 

And  she  answered,  "  My  doughter,  gramercy !" 


48  THE      FLOWER      AND      THE      LEAF. 

"  Madame,"  quoth  I,  "  if  that  I  durst  enquere 

Of  you,  I  would  faine  of  that  company 

Wite  what  they  be  that  past  by  this  arbere  ?" 

And  she  ayen  answered  right  friendly ; 

"  My  faire  doughter,  all  tho  that  passed  hereby 

In  white  clothing,  be  servaunts  everichone 

Unto  the  Leafe,  and  I  my  selfe  am  one." 

"  See  ye  not  her  that  crowned  is,"  quoth  she, 
"All  in  white  ?" — "  Madame,"  quoth  I,  "  yes  :" 
"  That  is  Diane,  goddesse  of  chastite, 
And  for  because  that  she  a  maiden  is, 
In  her  hond  the  braunch  she  beareth  this, 
That  agnus  castus  men  call  properly, 
And  all  the  ladies  in  her  company, 

"  Which  ye  se  of  that  hearbe  chapelets  weare 
Be  such  as  han  kept  alway  hir  maidenheed  : 
And  all  they  that  of  laurer  chapelets  beare, 
Be  such  as  hardy  were,  and  manly  in  deed, 
Victorious  name  which  never  may  be  dede ! 
And  all  they  were  so  worthy  of  hir  hond, 
In  hir  time  that  none  might  hem  withstond. 

"  And  tho  that  weare  chapelets  on  their  hede 
Of  fresh  woodbind,  be  such  as  never  were 
To  love  untrue  in  word,  thought,  ne  dede, 
But  aye  stedfast,  ne  for  pleasaunce,  ne  fere, 
Though  that  they  should  their  hertes  all  to-tere, 
Would  never  flit  but  ever  were  stedfast, 
Till  that  their  lives  there  asunder  brast." 

"  Now  fair  madame,"  quoth  I,  "  yet  I  would  pray 
Your  ladiship,  if  that  it  mighte  be, 
That  I  might  knowe  by  some  maner  way, 
Sith  that  it  hath  liked  your  beaute, 
The  trouth  of  these  ladies  for  to  tell  me, 
What  that  these  knightes  be  in  rich  armour, 
And  what  tho  be  in  grene  and  weare  the  flour  ? 

"  And  why  that  some  did  reverence  to  that  tre, 

And  some  unto  the  plot  of  floures  faire  ?" 

"  With  right  good  will  my  fair  doughter,"  quoth  slu 

"  Sith  your  desire  is  good  and  debonaire, 

Tho  nine  crowned,  be  very  exemplaire, 

Of  all  honour  longing  to  chivalry, 

And  those  certaine  be  called  the  Nine  Worth v, 


THE      FLOWER      A  X  D      THE      LEAF.  49 

"  Which  ye  may  see  now  riding  all  before, 
That  in  hir  time  did  many  a  noble  dede, 
And  for  their  worthines  full  oft  have  bore 
The  crown  of  laurer  leaves  on  their  hede, 
As  ye  may  in  your  old  bookes  rede  ; 
And  how  that  he  that  was  a  conquerour, 
Had  by  laurer  alway  his  most  honour. 

"And  tho  that  beare  boughes  in  their  hond 

Of  the  precious  laurer  so  notable, 

Be  such  as  were,  I  woll  ye  understond, 

Noble  knightes  of  the  round  table, 

And  eke  the  Douseperis  honourable, 

Which  they  beare  in  signe  of  victorye ; 

It  is  witnesse  of  their  deeds  mightily. 

"  Eke  there  be  knightes  old  of  the  garter, 
That  in  hir  time  did  right  worthily, 
And  the  honour  they  did  to  the  laurer, 
Is  for  by  it  they  have  their  laud  wholly, 
Their  triumph  eke,  and  martiall  glory ; 
Which  unto  them  is  more  parfite  richesse, 
Than  any  wight  imagine  can  or  guesse. 

"  For  one  leafe,  given  of  that  noble  tree 
To  any  wight  that  hath  done  worthily, 
And  it  be  done  soe  as  it  ought  to  be, 
Is  more  honour  than  any  thing  earthly. 
Witnes  of  Rome  that  founder  was  truly 
Of  all  knighthood  and  deeds  marvelous, 
Record  I  take  of  Titus  Livius. 

"  And  as  for  her  that  crowned  is  in  greene, 

It  is  Flora,  of  these  floures  goddesse, 

And  all  that  here  on  her  awaiting  beene, 

It  are  such  folk  that  loved  idlenesse, 

And  not  delite  in  no  businesse, 

But  for  to  hunt  and  hauke,  and  pley  in  medcs. 

And  many  other  suchlike  idle  dedes. 

"And  for  the  great  delite  and  pleasaunce 
They  have  to  the  floure,  and  so  reverently 
They  unto  it  do  such  obeisaunce, 
As  ye  may  se." — "  Now  faire  Madame,"  quoth  I. 
"  If  I  durst  aske  what  is  the  causo  and  why, 
That  knightes  have  the  ensigne  of  honour, 
Rather  by  the  leafe  than  the  flour  ?" 
3 


50  THE      FLOWER      AND      THE     LEAF. 

"  Soothly  doughter,"  quod  she,  "  this  is  the  trouth 

For  knightes  ever  should  be  persevering, 

To  seeke  honour  without  feintise  or  slouth ; 

Fro  wele  to  better  in  all  manner  thing ; 

In  signe  of  which  with  leaves  aye  lasting, 

They  be  rewarded  after  their  degre, 

Whose  lusty  green  May  may  not  appaired  be, 

"  But  aie  keping  their  beautie  fresh  and  greene. 

For  there  n'is  storme  that  may  hem  deface, 

Haile  nor  snow,  winde  nor  frosts  keene, 

Wherfore  they  have  this  property  and  grace ; 

And  for  the  floure,  within  a  little  space 

Woll  be  all  lost,  so  simple  of  nature 

They  be,  that  they  no  greevance  may  endure. 

"  And  every  storme  will  blow  them  soone  away, 

Ne  they  last  not  but  for  a  season  ; 

That  is  the  cause,  the  very  trouth  to  say, 

That  they  may  not  by  no  way  of  reason 

Be  put  to  no  such  occupation." 

"  Madame,"  quoth  I,  "  with  all  mine  whole  servise 

I  thanke  you  now,  in  my  most  humble  wise. 

'  For  now  I  am  ascertained  throughly, 
Of  every  thing  that  I  desired  to  know." 
"  I  am  right  glad  that  I  have  said  sothly, 
Ought  to  your  pleasure,  if  ye  will  me  trow," 
Quod  she  ay  en,  "  but  to  whom  do  ye  owe 
Your  service  ?     And  which  will  ye  honour, 
Tel  me  I  pray,  this  yere  ?  the  Leafe  or  the  Flour  ?'; 

"Madame,"  quoth  I,  "  though  I  least  worthy, 

Unto  the  Leafe  I  owe  mine  observaunce  :" 

"  That  is,"  quod  she,  "  right  well  done  certainly ; 

And  I  pray  God  to  honour  you  avaunce, 

And  kepe  you  fro  the  wicked  remembraunce 

Of  Malebouch,  and  all  his  crueltie, 

And  all  that  good  and  well  conditioned  be. 

"  For  here  may  I  no  lenger  now  abide, 

I  must  follow  the  great  company, 

That  ye  may  see  yonder  before  you  ride." 

And  forth  as  I  couth  most  humbly, 

I  tooke  my  leve  of  her,  as  she  gan  hie, 

After  them  as  fast  as  ever  she  mi  ••'  fc, 

And  I  dro\v  homeward,  for  it  was  nigh  night, 


THE   FLOWER   AND   THE   LEAF.         51 

And  put  all  that  I  had  seene  in  writing, 
Under  support  of  them  that  lust  it  to  rede. 
0  little  booke,  thou  art  so  unconning, 
How  darst  thou  put  thy  self  in  prees  for  drede  ? 
It  is  wonder  that  thou  wexest  not  rede ! 
Sith  that  thou  wost  full  lite  who  shall  behold 
Thy  rude  langage,  full  boistously  unfold. 

GEOFFREY  CHAUCER,  1328-1399. 


II. 

rt  ftt. 


"  A  BEE  among  the  flowers  in  spring  is  one  of  the  cheerfull- 
-£*-  est  things  that  can  be  looked  upon.  Its  life  appears  to  be 
all  enjoyment :  so  busy,  and  so  pleased."  Any  one  who  has 
wandered  about  the  fields  during  the  warmer  months  will  as- 
suredly agree  with  this  opinion  of  Paley.  The  very  hum  of 
the  bee,  as  it  flies  past  us  on  its  pleasant  errand,  in  quest  of 
some  sweet  flower,  or  returning  with  its  dainty  load,  is  one 
of  the  most  cheery  of  the  voices  of  summer.  The  movement 
of  the  little  creature,  also,  is  full  of  meaning,  and  attracts  the 
eye  as  curiously  characteristic  of  its  nature ;  it  generally  flies 
in  lines  more  or  less  direct ;  we  see  here  nothing  of  the  idle, 
roaming,  vagrant  flutter  of  the  gaudy  butterfly,  and  nothing 
of  the  doubtful,  hesitating,  over-cautious  pause  of  the  plodding 
ant.  The  instincts  of  the  bee  are  all  lively  and  vigorous  ;  it 
seems  conscious  that  wherever  grass  grows,  there  some  blos- 
som will  be  found  to  reward  its  search,  and  it  moves  steadily 


TH  E      B  E  E.  53 

onward  until  a  head  of  clover,  or  perchance  a  prouder  flower, 
offers  the  precious  drop.  And,  alighting  to  gather  its  grate- 
ful harvest,  how  skillfully  its  work  is  carried  on  ;  other  insects 
may  show  as  much  cleverness  in  attaining  their  end,  but  there 
are  few  indeed  which  accomplish  their  task  so  pleasantly. 
The  wise  little  bee  does  no  mischief;  no  violence  marks  her 
labors ;  the  freshness  of  the  flower  remains  unsullied  by  her 
passage  ;  she  leaves  the  gay  petals  and  the  green  foliage  alike 
uninjured  ;  no  plant  suffers  from  her  visits  !  There  is  nothing 
unsightly,  nothing  repelling  or  painful  in  any  of  her  measures  ; 
all  is  order,  nicety,  and  harmony.  If  we  may  believe  Milton, 
to  watch  the  bee  at  her  task  was  a  pleasure  worthy  of  Para- 
dise. Adam,  when  he  awakens  Eve,  invites  her  to  prune  her 
vines,  to  prop  her  flowers,  and  to  mark 

.    .    .    .    "  How  the  bee 

Sits  on  the  bloom,  extracting  liquid  sweets." 

As  a  poetical  accessory  of  rural  life,  the  bee  was  much 
honored  by  the  ancient  writers,  receiving  at  their  hands  far 
more  notice  than  has  fallen  to  her  share  in  later  times.  The 
reader  is  already  aware  that  the  Fourth  Georgic  of  Virgil, 
relating  wholly  to  bees,  takes  the  first  rank  among  the  most 
beautiful  and  perfect  of  Latin  poems.  Extracts  from  Sotheby's 
translations  of  this  Georgic  are  given  among  the  following  Se- 
lections. It  is  amusing  to  note  some  of  the  errors  and  mis- 
conceptions of  the  master  regarding  the  habits  of  those  little 
creatures  ;  and  yet  it  is  generally  admitted,  that  from  the  great 
attention  paid  to  them,  the  ancients  had  more  correct  notions 
regarding  the  bee  than  on  any  other  subject  of  natural  history. 


54  T  H  E      B  E  E  . 

TO   THE   BEES. 

FROM  THE   GREEK   OF   ZONA.S. 


Ye  nimble,  honey-making  bees, 

The  flowers  are  in  their  prime ; 
Come,  now,  and  taste  the  little  buds 

Of  sweetly  breathing  thyme ; 
Of  tender  poppies  all  so  fair, 

Or  bits  of  raisin  sweet, 
Or  down  that  decks  the  apple  tribe, 

Or  fragrant  violet : 
Come,  nibble  on,  your  vessels  store 

With  honey  while  you  can, 
In  order  that  the  hive-protecting, 

Bee-preserving  Pan 
May  have  a  tasting  for  himself; 

And  that  the  hand  so  rude, 
That  cuts  away  the  combs,  may  leave 

For  yourselves  a  little  food. 

Translation  of  W.  HAT 


ON    A    BEE'S    NEST. 

FROM   THE    OKEEK    OF   ANTIPHILUS. 

0  beautiful  bee  homestead, 

With  many  a  waxen  cell, 
Self- built — for  hanging,  so  it  seems — 

That  airy  citadel ! 
An  unbought  blessing  to  man's  life, 

Which  neither  plow  nor  hoe, 
Nor  axe  nor  crooked  sickle, 

Is  needed  to  bestow ; 
A  tiny  vessel — and  no  more — 

Wherein  the  busy  bee 
From  its  small  body  liquid  sweets 

Distilleth  lavishly. 
Rejoice,  ye  blessed  creatures ! 

Regaling  while  ye  rove, 
Winged  workers  of  nectareous  food, 

On  all  the  flowers  ye  love. 

Translation  of  JOHN 


T  II  E      B  E  E  .  55 


THE    BEE. 

FROM   THE    CIKKKK    OF    N1CIA8,    280    B.  C. 

Many-colored,  sunshine-loving, 

Spring-betokening  bee  ! 
Yellow  bee,  so  mad  for  love 

Of  early-blooming  flowers — 
Till  thy  waxen  cell  be  full. 

Fair  fall  thy  work  and  thee, 
Buzzing  round  the  sweetly-smelling 

Garden  plots  and  bowers. 

Anonymous  Translator 


MANAGEMENT    OF    BEES. 

FROM    THK   FOURTH    QEORGIC   OF   VIRGIL. 
*  *  *  *  * 

First,  seek  a  station  where  no  ruthless  gale 

Dares  the  still  hive  and  sheltered  bees  assail : 

Lest  as  they  homeward  droop,  o'erdone  with  toil, 

Inclement  blasts  their  loaded  flight  despoil ; 

Far  from  the  sheep  that  wasted  earth  devour, 

The  wanton  bird  that  bounds  from  flower  to  flower ; 

Heifers  whose  roving  steps  the  meadow  bruise, 

And  dash  from  springing  herbs  nectareous  dews. 

There  let  no  lizard,  armed  with  burnished  scale, 

Merops,  or  bird  of  prey,  their  wall  assail, 

Nor  Progne  haunt,  whose  conscious  plumes  attest 

The  blood-stained  hand  imprinted  on  her  breast. 

These  widely  waste,  and,  seiz'd  upon  the  wing, 

To  feed  their  nest,  the  bee  in  triumph  bring. 

But  there  let  pools  invite  with  moss  array'd, 

Clear  fount  and  rill  that  purls  along  the  glade, 

Palms  o'er  their  porch  a  grateful  gloom  extend, 

And  the  wild  olive's  shelt'ring  boughs  defend. 

There  where  new  kings  the  swarms  at  spring-tide  lead. 

And  bursting  myriads  gladden  all  the  mead, 

Dim  banks  at  noon  may  lure  to  cool  repose, 

And  trees  with  hospitable  arms  inclose. 

If  sleep  the  stagnant  pools,  or  currents  flow, 

Huge  stones  and  willows  'raid  the  water  throw ; 

That  if  a  breeze  across  their  passage  sweep, 

And  headlong  drive  the  loiterer  to  the  deep, 


56  T  H  E      B  E  E  . 

On  many  a  bridge  the  bee  may  safely  stand, 
And  his  wet  plumes  to  summer  suns  expand. 
There  all  her  sweets  let  savory  exhale, 
Thyme  breathe  her  soul  of  fragrance  on  the  gale 
In  dulcet  streams  her  roots  green  casia  lave, 
And  beds  of  violets  drink  at  will  the  wave. 
Alike,  if  hollow  cork  their  fabric  form, 
Or  flexile  twigs  inclose  the  settled  swarm ; 
With  narrow  entrance  guard  the  shelter'd  cell, 
And  summer  suns  and  winter  blasts  repel. 
Dire  each  extreme ;  or  winter  cakes  with  cold, 
Or  summer  melts  the  comb  to  fluid  gold. 
Hence  not  in  vain  the  bees  their  domes  prepare, 
And  smear  the  chinks  that  open  to  the  air ; 
With  flowers  and  fucus  close  each  pervious  pore 
With  wax  cement,  and  thicken  o'er  and  o'er. 
Stor'd  for  this  use  they  hive  the  clammy  dew, 
And  load  their  garners  with  tenacious  glue, 
As  birdlime  thick,  or  pitch  that  slow  distils 
In  loitering  drops  on  Ida's  pine-crowned  hills  • 
And  oft,  'tis  said,  they  delve  beneath  the  earth, 
And  nurse  in  gloomy  caves  their  hidden  birth, 
Amid  the  crumbling  stone's  dark  concave  dwell, 
Or  hang  in  hollow  trees  their  airy  cell. 
Thou  aid  their  toil !  with  mud  their  walls  o'erlay, 
And  lightly  shade  the  roof  with  leafy  spray. 
There  let  no  yew  its  baleful  shadow  cast. 
Nor  crabs  on  glowing  embers  taint  the  blast. 
Far  from  their  roof  deep  fens  that  poison  breathe, 
Thick  fogs  that  float  from  bed  of  mud  beneath, 
Caves  from  whose  depth  redoubled  echoes  rise, 
And  rock  on  rock  in  circling  shout  replies. 
Now  when  the  sun  beneath  the  realms  of  night 
Dark  winter  drives,  and  robes  the  heavens  with  light. 
The  bees  o'er  hill  and  dale,  from  flow'r  to  flow'r, 
In  grove  and  lawn  the  purple  spring  devour, 
Sip  on  the  wing,  and,  lightly  bursting,  lave 
Their  airy  plumage  in  its  undimpled  wave. 
****** 

Ah,  fav'rite  scenes  !  but  now  with  gather'd  sail 
I  seek  the  shore,  nor  trust  th'  inviting  gale ; 
Else  had  my  song  your  charms  at  leisure  trac'd, 
And  all  the  garden's  varied  arts  embrac'd  ; 
Sung,  twice  each  year,  how  Pnestan  roses  blow, 
How  endive  drinks  the  rill  that  purls  below, 


T  H  E      B  E  E  .  57 

How  twisting  gourds  pursue  their  mazy  way, 

Swell  as  they  creep,  and  widen  into  day  ; 

How  verdant  celery  decks  its  humid  bed, 

How  late-blown  flow'j*ets  round  narcissus  spread  ; 

The  lithe  acanthus,  and  the  ivy  hoar, 

And  myrtle  blooming  on  the  sea-beat  shore. 

Yes,  I  remember  where  Galoesus  leads 
His  flood  dark- winding  through  the  golden  meads, 
Where  proud  (Ebalia's  tow'rS  o'erlook  the  plain, 
Once  I  beheld  an  old  Corcyrian  swain  ; 
Lord  of  a  little  spot,  by  all  disdain'd, 
Where  never  lab'ring  yoke  subsistence  gain'd, 
Where  never  shepherd  gave  his  flock  to  feed, 
Nor  Bacchus  dar'd  to  trust  th'  ungrateful  mead, 
He  there  with  scanty  herbs  the  bushes  crown'd, 
And  planted  lilies,  vervains,  poppies  round  ; 
Nor  envied  kings,  when  late,  at  twilight  close, 
Beneath  his  peaceful  shed  he  sought  repose, 
And  cull'd  from  earth,  with  changeful  plenty  stor'd, 
Th'  unpurchas'd  feasts  that  pil'd  his  varied  board. 
At  spring-tide  first  he  pluck'd  the  full-blown  rose, 
From  autumn  first  the  ripen'd  apple  chose ; 
And  e'en  when  winter  split  the  rocks  with  cold, 
And  chain'd  the  o'erhanging  torrent  as  it  roll'd, 
His  blooming  hyacinths,  ne'er  known  to  fail, 
Shed  scents  unborrow'd  of  the  vernal  gale, 
As  'mid  their  rifled  beds  he  wound  his  way, 
Chid  the  slow  sun,  and  zephyr's  long  delay. 
"Hence  first  his  bees  new  swarms  unnumber'd  gave, 
And  press'd  from  richest  combs  the  golden  wave ; 
Limes  round  his  haunts  diffus'd  a  grateful  shade, 
And  verdant  pines  with  many  a  cone  array'd ; 
And  every  bud  that  gemm'd  the  vernal  spray, 
Swell'd  into  fruit  beneath  th'  autumnal  ray. 
He  lofty  elms,  transpos'd  in  order,  plac'd, 
Luxuriant  pears  at  will  his  alleys  grac'd, 
And  grafted  thorns  that  blushing  plumes  display'd, 
And  plains  that  stretch'd  o'er  summer  feasts  their  shade. 
Ah !  fav'rite  scenes !  to  other  bards  resign'd, 
I  leave  your  charms,  and  trace  my  task  assign'd. 

******* 

To  each  his  part ;  age  claims  th'  entrusted  care 
To  rear  the  palace,  and  the  dome  repair  ; 
The  young,  returning  home  at  dead  of  night, 
Faint,  droop  beneath  the  thyme  that  loads  their  flight. 
8* 


58  T  H  E      B  E  E  . 

Where'er  a  willow  waves,  or  arbute  grows, 
Or  casia  scents  the  gale,  or  crocus  glows, 
Or  hyacinth  unfolds  its  purple  hue, 
Flow'r,  shrub,  and  grove,  for  them  their  sweets  renew. 
Alike  they  labor,  and  alike  repose ; 
Forth  from  their  gates  each  morn  the  nation  flows ; 
And  when  pale  twilight,  from  the  wasted  mead, 
Bids  the  tir'd  race,  o'ercharg'd  with  spoil,  recede, 
They  seek  their  roof,  their  drooping  frame  revive, 
And  shake  with  ceaseless  hum  the  crowded  hive. 
Deep  calm  succeeds,  each  laid  within  his  cell, 
Where  sleep  and  peace  without  a  murmur  dwell. 
If  tempests  low'r,  or  blustering  Eurus  sound, 
Prescient  they  creep  their  city  walls  around, 
Sip  the  pure  rill  that  near  their  portal  springs, 
And  bound  their  wary  flight  in  narrower  rings, 
And  with  light  pebbles,  like  a  balanc'd  boat, 

Pois'd  through  the  air  on  even  pinions  float. 

****** 

Not  Lydia's  sons,  nor  Parthia's  peopled  shore 

Mede,  or  Egyptian,  thus  their  king  adore. 

He  lives  and  moves  through  all  th'  accordant  soul — 

He  dies,  and  by  his  death  dissolves  the  whole ; 

Rage  and  fierce  war  their  wondrous  fabric  tear, 

Scatter  their  combs,  and  waste  in  wild  despair. 

He  guards  their  works,  his  looks  deep  rev'rence  draws , 

Crowds  swarm  on  crowds,  and  hum  their  loud  applause, 

Bear  'mid  the  press  of  battle  on  their  wing, 

And,  proud  to  perish,  die  around  their  king. 

Hence  to  the  bee  some  sages  have  assign' d 

A  portion  of  the  God,  and  heavenly  mind ; 

For  God  goes  forth,  and  spreads  throughout  the  whole — 

Heaven,  earth,  and  sea,  the  universal  soul; 

Each  at  its  birth  from  him  all  beings  share, 

Both  man  and  brute,  the  breath  of  vital  air. 

There  all  returns,  and  loos'd  from  earthly  chain, 

Fly  whence  they  sprung,  and  rest  in  God  again, 

Spurn  at  the  grave,  and  fearless  of  decay, 

Live  'mid  the  host  of  heaven,  and  star  th'  ethereal  way. 

****** 
If  wintry  dearth  thy  prescient  fears  create, 
Or  rouse  thy  pity  for  their  ruin'd  state ; 
With  thymy  odors  scent  their  smoking  halls, 
And  fill  th'  unpeopled  cells  that  load  their  walls. 
There  oft,  unseen,  dark  newts  insidious  prey, 


T  H  E      B  E  E  .  59 

The  beetle  there,  that  flies  the  light  of  day- 
There  feasts  th'  unbidden  drone — there  ring  the  alarms 
Of  hornets  battling  with  unequal  arms ; 
Dire  gnaws  the  moth,  and  o'er  their  portals  spread 
The  spider  watches  her  aerial  thread. 
Yet  still,  when  most  oppress'd,  they  mostly  strive, 
And  tax  their  strength  to  renovate  the  hive  ; 
Contending  myriads  urge  exhaustless  powers, 
Fill  every  cell,  and  crowd  the  comb  with  flowers. 
Translation  ofW.  SOTHEBT.  PUBLIUS  VIRGILIUS  MAEO,  70-19  B.  C. 


FItOM    SHAKSPKARE. 

So  work  the  honey-bees  ; 

Creatures  that,  by  a  rule  in  nature,  teach 

The  art  of  order  to  a  peopled  kingdom. 

They  have  a  king,  and  officers  of  sorts ; 

Where  some,  like  magistrates,  correct  at  home  : 

Others,  like  merchants,  venture  trade  abroad  : 

Others,  like  soldiers,  armed  in  their  sting, 

Make  boot  upon  the  summer's  velvet  buds, 

Which  pillage  they  with  merry  march  bring  home 

To  the  tent  royal  of  their  emperor — 

Who,  busied  in  his  majesty,  surveys 

The  singing  masons  building  roofs  of  gold ; 

The  civil  citizens  kneading  up  the  honey ; 

The  poor  mechanic  porters  crowding  in 

Their  heavy  burdens  at  his  narrow  gate  ; 

The  sad-eyed  justice,  with  his  surly  hum, 

Delivering  o'er  to  executors  pale 

The  lazy,  yawning  drone. 

Henry  V.,  Aft  I.,  S.  2. 


THE    DRONE. 

FKOM  "THE  FEMININE  MONARCHY,  OB  THK  HISTOBY  OF  BKKS." 

The  drone  is  a  gross,  stingless  bee,  that  spendeth  his  time  in  gluttony 
and  idleness ;  for  howsoever  he  brave  it  with  his  round,  velvet  cap,  his 
side  gown,  his  full  paunch,  and  his  loud  voice,  yet  is  he  but  an  idle  com- 
panion, living  by  the  sweat  of  others'  brows.  He  worketh  not  at^all, 
either  at  home  or  abroad,  and  yet  spendeth  as  much  as  two  laborers; 
yo\i  shall  never  find  his  man  without  a  good  drop  of  the  purest  nectar. 
In  the  heat  of  the  day  he  flieth  abroad,  aloft,  and  about,  and  that  with 


60  THE      BEE 

no  small  noise,  as  though  he  would  do  some  great  act ;  but  it  is  only  for 
his  pleasure,  and  to  get  him  a  stomach,  and  then  returns  he  pleasantly 
to  his  cheer. 

CHARLES  BUTLER,  1634. 

MEMORY    OF    THE    BEE. 

Hark  !  the  bee  winds  her  small  but  mellow  horn, 
Blithe  to  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn, 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course, 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'Tis  noon,  'tis  night.     That  eye  so  finely  wrought, 
Beyond  the  reach  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought, 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind, 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined! 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell  ? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  mazy  clue 
Of  varied  scents,  that  charm'd  her  as  she  flew  ? 
Hail,  memory,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 
Guards  the  least  link  of  being's  glorious  chain. 

SAMUEL  EOGERS. 

THE    DEATH    OF    THE    BEE. 

FHOM    "  SALMONIA." 

Phys.  *  *  *  Let  me  now  call  your  attention  to  that  Michaelmas 
daisy.  A  few  minutes  ago,  before  the  sun  sunk  behind  the  hill,  its 
flowers  were  covered  with  varieties  of  bees,  and  some  wasps,  all  busy  in 
feeding  on  its  sweets.  I  never  saw  a  more  animated  scene  of  insect 
enjoyment.  The  bees  were  most  of  them  humble-bees,  but  many  of  them 
new  varieties  to  me,  and  the  wasps  appeared  different  from  any  I  have 
seen  before. 

Hal.  I  believe  this  is  one  of  the  last  autumnal  flowers  that  insects  of 
this  kind  haunt.  In  sunny  days  it  is  their  constant  point  of  resort,  and 
it  would  afford  a  good  opportunity  to  the  entomologist  to  make  a  collec- 
tion of  British  bees. 

Poict.  I  neither  hear  the  hum  of  the  bee,  nor  can  I  see  any  on  its 
flowers.  They  are  now  deserted. 

Phys.  Since  the  sun  has  disappeared,  the  cool  of  the  evening  has,  I 
suppose,  driven  the  little  winged  plunderers  to  their  homes ;  but  see ! 
there  are  two  or  three  humble-bees  which  seem  languid  with  the  cold, 
and  yet  they  have  their  tongues  still  in  the  fountain  of  honey.  I  believe 
one  of  them  is  actually  dead,  yet  his  mouth  is  still  attached  to  the  flower. 
He  has  fallen  asleep,  and  probably  died  while  making  his  last  meal  of 

ambrosia. 

SIR  HUMPHREY  DAVY. 


THE      B  E  E.  01 


SONNET. 

The  honey-boe,  that  wanders  all  day  long, 
The  field,  the  woodland,  and  the  garden  o'er, 
To  gather  in  his  fragrant  winter  store, 
Humming  in  calm  content  his  quiet  song, 

Seeks  not  alone  the  rose's  glowing  breast, 
The  lily's  dainty  cup,  the  violet's  lips — 
But  from  all  rank  and  noxious  weeds  he  sips 

The  single  drop  of  sweetness  closely  press'd 
Within  the  poison  chalice.     Thus,  if  we 
Seek  only  to  draw  forth  the  hidden  sweet, 
In  all  the  varied  human  flowers  we  meet, 
In  the  wide  garden  of  humanity  ; 
And  like  the  bee,  if  home  the  spoil  we  bear, 
Hived  in  our  hearts,  it  turns  to  nectar  there. 

Awmt  C.  LYNCH. 


III. 


spring. 


FLETCHER  is  one  of  the  old  English  poets  but 
little  known  to  the  general  reader  in  America.  And  yet 
he  was  the  author  of  a  poem  of  high  merit.  He  was  born 
about  twenty  years  after  Shakspeare,  or  in  1588,  and  came 
of  a  family  marked  by  great  poetical  talent.  John  Fletcher, 
the  celebrated  dramatist  and  fellow-laborer  of  Beaumont,  was 
a  cousin,  and  it  was  his  elder  brother,  Phineas  Fletcher,  who 
wrote  "  The  Purple  Island,"  that  singular  and  elaborate  poet- 
ical allegory,  carried  out  through  twelve  cantos,  and  relieved 
by  much  occasional  beauty  of  thought  and  style.  The  father 
also,  Dr.  Giles  Fletcher,  has  been  ranked  among  the  good 
poets  of  his  day.  The  only  work  of  Giles  Fletcher,  the  son, 
which  has  been  published,  is  of  a  religious  character,  "  Christ's 
Victory  and  Triumph,"  a  poem  in  four  parts.  It  has  never 
been  reprinted  entire  in  America,  though  full  of  tine  passages, 
and  marked  throughout  with  originality  and  beauty.  The 


SPRING.  63 

subjects  are  of  course  very  much  of  the  same  nature  as  those 
of  "  Paradise  Regained ;"  a  comparison  of  the  two  poems, 
however,  by  no  means  diminishes  our  admiration  for  the  work 
of  Fletcher,  especially  when  we  bear  in  mind  that  he  wrote 
half  a  century  before  Milton.  In  fact,  "  Christ's  Victory  and 
Triumph"  was,  at  the  time  it  appeared,  the  finest  sacred  poem 
of  any  length  in  our  language ;  it  is  full  of  a  jubilant  poet- 
ical eloquence  and  the  earnest  expression  of  strong  religious 
feeling  connected  with  the  subject.  Giles  Fetcher,  like  his 
brother  Phineas,  was  a  clergyman  of  the  Church  of  England, 
and  led  an  uneventful  life  in  his  country  parish  of  Alderton, 
Suffolk,  where  he  died  in  1623. 

A  description  of  Spring  at  Easter  will,  it  is  hoped,  give 
the  reader  pleasure. 

THE    RETURN    OF    SPRING    IN    GREECE. 


Hush'd  is  the  howl  of  wintry  breezes  wild ; 
The  purple  hour  of  youthful  spring  has  smiled : 
A  livelier  verdure  clothes  the  teeming  earth  ; 
Buds  press  to  life,  rejoicing  in  their  birth  ; 
The  laughing  meadows  drink  the  dews  of  night, 
And  fresh  with  opening  roses  glad  the  sight : 
In  song  the  joyous  swains  responsive  vie ; 
Wild  music  floats  and  mountain  melody. 

Adventurous  seamen  spread  the  embosomed  sail 
O'er  waves  light  heaving  to  the  western  gale  ; 
While  village  youths  their  brows  with  ivy  twine, 
And  hail  with  song  the  promise  of  the  vine. 

In  curious  cells  the  bees  digest  their  spoil, 
When  vernal  sunshine  animates  their  toil, 
And  little  birds,  in  warblings  sweet  and  clear, 
Salute  thee,  Maia,  loveliest  of  the  year : 
Thee,  on  their  deeps,  the  tuneful  halcyons  hail, 
In  streams  the  swan,  in  woods  the  nightingale. 

If  earth  rejoices  with  new  verdure  gay, 
And  shepherds  pipe,  and  flocks  exulting  play, 
And  sailors  roam,  and  Bacchus  leads  his  throng, 
And  bees  to  toil,  and  birds  awake  to  song, 
Shall  the  glad  bard  be  mute  in  tuneful  spring, 
And,  warm  with  love  and  joy,  forget  to  sing  ? 

Translation  of  ROBERT  BLAWD. 


64  SPRING. 

SPRING. 

FROM  THE  ORKKK  OF  ANACREON. 

Behold  the  young,  the  rosy  spring, 
Gives  to  the  breeze  her  scented  wing, 
While  virgin  graces,  warm  with  May, 
Fling  roses  o'er  her  dewy  way. 
The  murmuring  billows  of  the  deep 
Have  languished  into  silent  sleep. 
And  mark  !  the  flitting  sea-birds  lave 
Their  plumes  in  the  reflecting  wave  ; 
While  cranes  from  hoary  winter  fly 
To  flutter  in  a  kinder  sky. 
Now  the  genial  star  of  day 
Dissolves  the  murky  clouds  away, 
And  cultured  field  and  winding  stream 
Are  freshly  glittering  in  his  beam. 

Now  the  earth  prolific  swells 
With  leafy  buds  and  flow'ry  bells ; 
Gemming  shoots  the  olive  twine, 
Clusters  bright  festoon  the  vine ; 
All  along  the  branches  creeping, 
Through  the  velvet  foliage  peeping, 
Little  infant  fruits  we  see 
Nursing  into  luxury. 

Translation  of  T.  MOORE. 

DESCRIPTION    OF    SPRING. 

The  soote  season,  that  bud  and  bloom  forth  brings, 

With  green  hath  clad  the  hill,  and  eke  the  vale, 
The  nightingale  with  feathers  new  she  sings ; 

The  turtle  to  her  mate  hath  told  her  tale. 
Summer  is  come,  for  every  spray  now  springs  ; 

The  hart  hath  hung  his  old  head  on  the  pale, 
The  buck  in  brake  his  winter  coat  he  flings ; 

The  fishes  flete  with  new  repaired  scale ; 
The  adder  all  her  slough  away  she  flings ; 

The  swift  swallow  pursueth  the  flies  smale ; 
The  busy  bee  her  honey  now  she  mings ; 

Winter  is  worn  that  was  the  flowers'  bale. 
And  thus  I  see  among  these  pleasant  things 
Each  care  decays,  and  yet  my  sorrow  springs. 

HENRY  HOWARD,  Earl  of  Surrey,  1516-1547. 


SPRING.  65 


SPRING. 

FROM   TUK   "  THISTLE   AND   THE   ROSE." 

Quhen  Merche  wes  with  variand  windis  past. 
And  Appryll  had  with  hir  silver  shouris 
Tane  leif  at  Nature,  with  ane  orient  blast, 
And  lusty  May,  that  muddir  is  of  flouris, 
Had  maid  the  birdis  to  begyn  thair  houris, 
Amang  the  tendir  odouris  reid  and  quhyt 
Quhois  harmony  to  heir  it  was  delyt : 
In  bed  at  morrow  sleiping  as  I  lay, 
Methocht  Aurora,  with  her  crystall  ene 
In  at  the  window  lukit  by  the  day, 
And  halsit  me  with  visage  pale  and  grene ; 
On  quhois  hand  a  lark  sang,  fro  the  splene, 
"  Awak,  luvaris,  out  of  your  slemering, 
Se  how  the  lusty  morrow  dois  upspring  !" 

Methocht  fresche  May  befoir  my  bed  upstude, 
In  weid  depaynt  of  mony  diverse  hew, 
Sober,  benyng,  and  full  of  mansuetude, 
In  bright  atteir  of  flouris  forgit  new, 
Hevinly  of  color,  quhyt,  reid,  brown,  and  blew, 
Balmit  in  dew,  and  gilt  with  Phebus'  bernys ; 
Quhil  al  the  house  illumynit  of  her  lemys. 

WILLIAM  DUN  BAR,  14G5-1530. 


ON    SPRING. 

Sweet  Spring,  thou  com'st  with  all  thy  goodly  train, 
Thy  head  with  flames,  thy  mantle  bright  with  flow'rs, 
The  zephyrs  curl  the  green  locks  of  the  plain, 
The  clouds  for  joy  in  pearls  weep  down  their  show'rs. 
Sweet  Spring,  thou  com'st — but,  ah  !  my  pleasant  hours 
And  happy  days  with  thee  come  not  again  ; 
The  sad  memorials  only  of  my  pain 
Do  with  thee  come,  which  turns  my  sweets  to  sours. 
Thou  art  the  same  which  still  thou  wert  before, 
Delicious,  lusty,  amiable,  fair  ; 
But  she  whose  breath  embalm'd  thy  wholesome  air 
Is  gone  ;  nor  gold,  nor  gems,  can  her  restore. 

Neglected  virtues,  seasons  go  and  come, 

When  thine  forgot  lie  closed  in  a  tomb. 


66  SPRING. 

What  doth  it  serve  to  see  the  sun's  bright  face, 
And  skies  enamell'd  with  the  Indian  gold  ? 
Or  the  moon  in  a  fierce  chariot  roll'd, 
And  all  the  glory  of  that  starry  place  ? 
What  doth  it  serve  earth's  beauty  to  behold, 
The  mountain's  pride,  the  meadow's  flow'ry  grace, 
The  stately  comeliness  of  forests  old, 
The  sport  of  floods  which  would  themselves  embrace  ? 
What  doth  it  serve  to  hear  the  sylvans'  songs, 
The  cheerful  thrush,  the  nightingale's  sad  strains, 
Which  in  dark  shades  seem  to  deplore  my  wrongs  ? 
For  what  doth  serve  all  that  this  world  contains, 
Since  she  for  whom  those  once  to  me  were  dear, 
Can  have  no  part  of  them  now  with  me  here  ? 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND,  1585-1649. 

SONNET    ON    SPRING. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

Now  Time  throws  on0  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  cold,  and  rain, 
And  clothes  him  in  the  embroidery 
Of  glittering  sun,  and  clear,  blue  sky. 
With  beast  and  bird  the  forest  rings, 
Each  in  his  jargon  cries  or  sings  ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  cold,  and  rain. 
River  and  fount,  and  tinkling  brook, 

Wear  in  their  dainty  livery 

Drops  of  silver  jewelry  ; 
In  new-made  suit  they  merry  look ; 
And  Time  throws  off  his  cloak  again 
Of  ermined  frost,  and  cold,  and  rain. 

CHAKLES,  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS,  1391. 

SPRING,    AT    EASTER. 

FROM   "  CHRIST'S   TRIUMPH  AND   VICTORY." 

But  now  the  second  morning  from  her  bower, 

Began  to  glister  in  her  beams ;  and  now 
The  roses  of  the  day  began  to  flower 

In  the  Eastern  garden ;  for  heaven's  smiling  brow, 

Half  insolent  for  joy,  began  to  show  : 

The  early  sun  came  dancing  lively  out, 

And  the  brag  lambs  ran  wantoning  about. 

That  heaven  and  earth  might  seem  in  triumph  both  to  shout. 


SPRING.  67 

The  engladdened  Spring,  forgetful  now  to  weep, 

Began  to  eblazon  from  her  leafy  bed ; 
The  waking  swallow  broke  her  half-year's  sleep, 

And  every  bush  lay  deeply  purpured 

With  violets  ;  the  woods'  late  wintry  head 

Wide  flaming  primroses  set  all  on  fire, 

And  his  bald  trees  put  on  their  green  attire, 

Among  whose  infant  leaves  the  joyous  birds  conspire. 

And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms, 

Of  unshorn  mountains,  blown  with  easy  winds, 
Dandled  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms ; 

And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 

The  under  corylass*  did  catch  the  shines, 

To  gild  their  leaves  :  saw  ne'er  happier  year 

Such  triumph  and  triumphant  cheer, 

As  though  the  aged  world  anew  created  were. 

Say,  Earth,  why  hast  thou  got  thee  new  attire, 

And  stick'st  thy  habit  full  of  daisies  red  ? 
Seems  that  thou  dost  to  some  high  thought  aspire, 

And  some  new-found-out  bridegroom  mean'st  to  wed  : 

Tell  me,  ye  trees,  so  fresh  apparelled — 

So  never  let  the  spiteful  canker  waste  you, 

So  never  let  the  heavens  with  lightning  blast  you ! 

Why  go  you  now  so  trimly  drest,  or  whither  haste  you  ? 

Answer  me,  Jordan,  why  thy  crooked  tide 
So  often  wanders  from  his  nearest  way, 

As  though  some  other  way  thy  streams  would  slide, 
And  join  salute  the  place  where  something  lay  ? 
And  you,  sweet  birds,  that,  shaded  from  the  ray, 
Sit  carolling,  and  piping  grief  away, 
The  while  the  lambs  to  hear  you  dance  and  play — 
Tell  me,  sweet  birds,  what  is  it  you  so  fain  would  say  ? 

And  thou,  fair  spouse  of  Earth,  that  every  year 

Gett'st  such  a  numerous  issue  of  thy  bride, 
How  chance  thou  hotter  shin'st,  and  draw'st  more  near  ? 

Sure  thou  somewhere  some  worthy  sight  hast  spied, 

That  in  one  place  for  joy  thou  canst  not  bide : 

And  you,  dead  swallows,  that  so  lively  now, 

Through  the  slit  air  your  winged  passage  row ; 

How  could  new  life  into  your  frozen  ashes  flow? 

*  Copses. 


68  SPRING. 

Ye  primroses  and  purple  violets, 

Tell  me,  why  blaze  ye  from  your  leafy  bed, 
And  woo  men's  hands  to  rent  you  from  your  sets, 

As  though  you  would  somewhere  be  carried, 

With  fresh  perfumes  and  velvets  garnished  ? 

But  ah  !  I  need  not  ask ;  'tis  surely  so ; 

You  all  would  to  your  Saviour's  triumph  go  : 

There  would  you  all  await,  and  humble  homage  do. 

There  should  the  Earth  herself,  with  garlands  new, 
And  lovely  flowers  embellish'd  adore : 

Such  roses  never  in  her  garland  grew  ; 
Such  lilies  never  in  her  breast  she  wore ; 
Like  beauty  never  yet  did  shine  before. 
There  should  the  Sun  another  Sun  behold, 
From  whence  himself  borrows  his  locks  of  gold, 
That  kindle  Heaven  and  Earth  with  beauties  manifold. 

There  might  the  violet  and  primrose  sweet, 

Beams  of  more  lively  and  more  lovely  grace, 
Arising  from  their  beds  of  incense,  meet ; 

There  should  the  swallow  see  new  life  embrace 

Dead  ashes,  and  the  grave  unvail  his  face, 

To  let  the  living  from  his  bowels  creep, 

Unable  longer  his  own  dead  to  keep ; 

There  Heaven  and  Earth  should  see  their  Lord  awake  from  sleep. 


"  Toss  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates, 

And  let  the  Prince  of  Glory  enter  in ! 
At  whose  brave  volley  of  sidereal  states, 

The  sun  to  blush,  and  stars  grow  pale,  were  seen; 

When  leaping  first  from  earth,  he  did  begin 

To  climb  his  angel  wings  :  then  open  hang 

Your  crystal  doors !"  so  all  the  chorus  sang 

Of  heavenly  birds,  as  to  the  stars  they  nimbly  sprang. 

Hark  !  how  the  floods  clap  their  applauding  hands, 

The  pleasant  valleys  singing  for  delight ; 
The  wanton  mountains  dance  about  the  lands, 

The  while  the  fields,  struck  with  the  heavenly  light, 

Set  all  their  flowers  a  smiling  at  the  sight ; 

The  trees  laugh  with  their  blossoms,  and  the  sound 

Of  the  triumphant  shout  of  praise,  that  crown'd 

The  flaming  Lamb,  breaking  through  heaven,  hath  passage  found. 

GTI.KS  FI.KTCHKK.  15SS-1623. 


SPRING.  69 


THE    AIRS    OF    SPRING. 

Sweetly  breathing,  vernal  air, 
That  with  kind  warmth  doth  repair 
Winter's  ruins ;  from  whose  breast 
All  the  gums  and  spice  of  th'  East 
Borrow  their  perfumes ;  whose  eye 
Gilds  the  morn,  and  clears  the  sky ; 
Whose  disheveled  tresses  shed 
Pearls  upon  the  violet  bed ; 
On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  drest, 
The  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 
Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring, 
Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing ! 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 
Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows, 
With  a  pregnant,  flowery  birth, 
Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth. 
If  he  nip  the  early  bud ; 
If  he  blast  what's  fair  or  good ; 
If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers ; 
If  he  shake  our  halls  or  bowers ; 
If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us, 
Thou  canst  stroke  great  ^Eolus, 
And  from  him  the  grace  obtain, 
To  bind  him  in  an  iron  chain. 

THOMAS  CAREW,  1600. 


RETURN    OF    SPRING. 

FROM   TUK   FBBNCH. 

God  shield  ye,  heralds  of  the  spring, 
Ye  faithful  swallows,  fleet  of  wing, 

Houps,  cuckoos,  nightingales, 
Turtles,  and  every  wilder  bird, 
That  make  your  hundred  chirpings  heard 

Through  the  green  woods  and  dales. 

God  shield  ye,  Easter  daisies  all, 
Fair  roses,  buds,  and  blossoms  small, 

And  he  whom  erst  the  gore 
Of  Ajax  and  Narciss  did  print, 
Ye  wild  thyme,  anise,  bnlm,  and  mint, 

I  welcome  ye  once  more. 


70  SPRING. 

God  shield  ye,  bright  embroider'd  train 
Of  butterflies,  that  on  the  plain, 

Of  each  sweet  herblet  sip ; 
And  ye,  new  swarms  of  bees,  that  go 
Where  the  pink  flowers  and  yellow  grow 

To  kiss  them  with  your  lip. 

A  hundred  thousand  times  I  call — 
A  hearty  welcome  on  ye  all : 

This  season  how  I  love ! 
This  merry  din  on  every  shore, 
For  winds  and  storms,  whose  sullen  roar 

Forbade  my  steps  to  rove. 
An&m/maus  Translation.  PIERRE  RONSARD,  1524-1586. 


ODE    TO    SPRING. 

Sweet  daughter  of  a  rough  and  stormy  sire, 
Hoar  Winter's  blooming  child — delightful  Spring ! 

Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 

And  swelling  buds  are  crown' d ; 

From  the  green  islands  of  eternal  youth, 

Crown'd  with  fresh  blooms  and  ever-springing  shade, 

Turn,  thither  turn  thy  step, 

0  thou  whose  powerful  voice, 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed, 
Or  Lydian  flute,  can  soothe  the  madding  wind, 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 

Breathe  thine  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best  beloved !  the  virgin  train  await 
With  songs,  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 

Thy  blooming  wilds  among, 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns, 

With  untired  feet ;  and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets 
To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glowing  brow 
Of  him,  the  favored  youth, 
That  prompts  their  whispered  sigh. 

Unlock  thy  copious  stores — those  tender  showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds ; 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 

The  milky  ear's  green  stem, 


SPRING.  71 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier's  early  shoots ; 

And  call  those  winds  which  through  the  whispering  boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 

Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

Now  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn, 
And  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o'er  the  dale ; 

And  watch  with  patient  eye, 

Thy  fair,  unfolding  charms. 

0  nymph,  approach  !  while  yet  the  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead  through  the  cold,  moist  air, 

Throws  his  young  maiden  beams, 

And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 

The  earth's  fair  bosom ;  while  the  streaming  vail 
Of  lucid  clouds,  with  kind  and  frequent  shade 

Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short ;  the  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses ;  and  the  mower's  scythe 

Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all, 

Remorseless  shall  destroy, 

Reluctant  shall  I  bid  thee  then  farewell ; 
For  0,  not  all  that  Autumn's  lap  contains 

Nor  Summer's  ruddiest  fruits 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone, 

Fair  Spring !  whose  simplest  promise  more  delights 
Than  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 

Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 

With  softest  influence  breathes. 

ANNE  LKTITIA  BAEBATTLD,  1743-1825. 


THE    FLOWER. 

How  fresh,  0  Lord,  how  sweet  nnd  clean 

Are  thy  returns  !  ev'n  as  the  flow'rs  in  spring ; 
To  which,  besides  their  own  demean, 

The  late  past  frost's  tributes  of  pleasure  bring : 
Grief  melts  away, 
Like  snow  in  May, 
As  if  there  were  no  such  cold  thin;*. 


72  SPRING. 

Who  would  have  thought  my  shrivel'd  heart 

Could  have  recover'd  greenness  ?     It  was  gone 
Quite  under  ground,  as  flowers  depart 

To  see  their  mother-root,  when  they  have  blown : 
Where  they  together, 
All  the  hard  weather, 
Dead  to  the  world,  keep  house  unknown. 

These  are  thy  wonders,  Lord  of  power  ! 

Thrilling  and  quick'ning,  bringing  down  to  hell, 
And  up  to  heaven  in  an  hour ; 

Making  a  chiming  of  a  passing  bell. 
We  say  amiss, 
This  or  that  is : 
Thy  word  is  all,  if  we  would  spell. 

Oh,  that  I  once  past  changing  were 

Fast  in  thy  Paradise,  where  no  flow'r  can  wither  ! 
Many  a  spring  I  shot  up  fair, 

Offering  at  heav'n,  growing  and  groaning  thither  : 
Nor  doth  my  flower 
Want  a  spring-shower, 
My  sins  and  I  joining  together. 

But  while  I  grow  in  a  straight  line, 

Still  upward  bent,  as  if  heav'n  were  mine  own, 
Thy  anger  comes,  and  I  decline  : 

What  frost  to  that  ?     What  pole  is  not  the  zone, 
Where  all  things  burn, 
When  thou  dost  turn, 
And  the  least  frown  of  thine  is  shown  ? 

And  now  in  age  I  bud  again ; 

After  so  many  deaths  I  live  and  write, 
I  once  more  smell  the  dew  and  rain, 
And  relish  versing.     0,  my  only  light, 
It  can  not  be, 
That  I  am  he, 
On  whom  thy  tempests  fell  all  night ! 

These  are  thy  wonders,  Lord  of  love ! 

To  make  us  see  we  are  but  flow'rs  that  glide ; 
Which,  when  we  once  can  find  and  prove, 
Thou  hast  a  garden  for  us,  where  to  bide. 
Who  would  be  more, 
Swelling  through  store, 
Forfeit  their  Paradise  by  their  pride, 

GEOKOE  HERBERT,  1598-1632. 


SPRING.  73 


ODE. 

FROM   THE   TURKISH. 

Hear !  how  the  nightingales  on  every  spray, 
Hail,  in  wild  notes,  the  sweet  return  of  May  : 
The  gale,  that  o'er  yon  waving  almond  blows, 
The  verdant  bank  with  silver  blossoms  strews ; 
The  smiling  season  decks  each  flowery  glade. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 

What  gales  of  fragrance  scent  the  vernal  air ! 
Hills,  dales,  and  woods  their  loveliest  mantles  wear , 
Who  knows  what  cares  await  that  fatal  day, 
When  ruder  guests  shall  banish  gentle  May  ? 
E'en  death,  perhaps,  our  valleys  will  invade. 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 

The  tulip  now  its  varied  hue  displays, 

And  sheds,  like  Ahmed's  eye,  celestial  rays. 

Ah  !  nature,  ever  faithful,  ever  true, 

The  joys  of  youth,  while  May  invites,  pursue ! 

Will  not  these  notes  your  timorous  minds  persuade  ? 

Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 

The  sparkling  dew-drops  o'er  the  lilies  play, 
Like  orient  pearls,  or  like  the  beams  of  day. 
If  love  and  mirth  your  idle  thoughts  engage, 
Attend,  ye  nymphs !  a  poet's  words  are  sage. 
While  thus  you  sit  beneath  the  trembling  shade, 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 

The  fresh-blown  rose,  like  Zeineb's  cheek  appears, 
When  pearls,  like  dew-drops,  glitter  in  her  ears. 
The  charms  of  youth  at  once  are  seen  and  past, 
And  Nature  says,  "  They  are  too  sweet  to  last." 
So  blooms  the  rose,  and  so  the  blushing  maid — 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 

See !  yon  anemones  their  leaves  unfold, 
With  rubies  gleaming,  and  with  living  gold  : 
While  crystal  showers  from  weeping  clouds  descend, 
Enjoy  the  presence  of  thy  tuneful  friend : 
Now,  while  the  wines  are  brought,  the  sofa's  laid, 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 
4 


/  4  SPRING. 

The  plants  no  more  are  dried,  the  meadow  dead ; 
No  more  the  rose-bud  hangs  her  pensive  head ; 
The  shrubs  revive  in  valleys,  mead,  and  bowers, 
And  every  stalk  is  garland'd  with  flowers ; 
In  silken  robes  each  hillock  stands  arrayed — 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade  ! 

Clear  drops,  each  morn,  impearl  the  rose's  bloom, 
And  from  its  leaf  the  zephyr  drinks  perfume ; 
The  dewy  buds  expand  their  lucid  store : 
Be  this  our  wealth ;  ye  damsels  ask  no  more, 
Though  wise  men  envy,  and  though  fools  upbraid, 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade  ! 

The  dew-drops  sprinkled  by  the  musky  gale, 
Are  changed  to  essence  ere  they  reach  the  dale ; 
The  mild,  blue  sky  a  rich  pavilion  spreads, 
Without  our  labor,  o'er  our  favor'd  heads. 
Let  others  toil  in  war,  in  arts,  in  trade — 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade ! 

Late  gloomy  winter  chilled  the  sullen  air, 

Till  Soli  man  arose,  and  all  was  fair. 

Soft  in  his  reign,  the  notes  of  love  resound, 

And  pleasure's  rosy  cup  goes  freely  round. 

Here  on  the  bank  which  mantling  vines  o'ershade, 

Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade  ! 

May  this  rude  lay,  from  age  to  age  remain, 
A  true  memorial  of  this  lovely  train. 
Come,  charming  maid,  and  hear  thy  poet  sing, 
Thyself  the  rose,  and  he  the  bird  of  spring ; 
Love  bids  him  sing,  and  love  will  be  obey'd. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade  ! 
Translation  of  SIR  WILLIAM  JONES.  From  tJie  Turkish  of  MESIIII. 


TO    SPRING. 

Alas,  delicious  Spring !  God  sends  thee  down 
To  breathe  upon  his  cold  and  perish'd  works 
Beauteous  revival ;  earth  should  welcome  thee — 
Thee  and  the  west  wind,  thy  smooth  paramour, 
With  the  soft  laughter  of  her  flowery  meads ; 
Her  joys,  her  melodies,  the  prancing  stag 
Flutters  the  shivering  fern ;  the  steed  shakes  out 
His  mane,  the  dewy  herbage,  silver- webb'd, 


SPRING.  75 

With  frank  step  trampling ;  the  wild  goat  looks  down 
From  his  empurpling  bed  of  heath,  where  break 
The  waters  deep  and  blue,  with  crystal  gleams 
Of  their  quick-leaping  people  ;  the  fresh  lark 
Is  in  the  morning  sky ;  the  nightingale 
Tunes  evensong  to  the  dropping  waterfall. 
Creation  lives  with  loveliness — all  melts 
And  trembles  into  one  mild  harmony. 

H.  MILMAN. 


TO    SPRING. 


FROM   THE    DANISH. 


Thy  beams  are  sweet,  beloved  spring  ! 

The  winter-shades  before  thee  fly ; 
The  bough  smiles  green,  the  young  birds  sing, 

The  chainless  current  glistens  by, 
Till  countless  flowers  like  stars  illume 
The  deepening  vale  and  forest  gloom. 

0  welcome,  gentle  guest  from  high, 

Sent  to  cheer  our  world  below, 
To  lighten  sorrow's  faded  eye, 

To  kindle  nature's  social  glow ! 
0,  he  is  o'er  his  fellows  blest 
Who  feels  thee  in  a  guiltless  breast ! 

Peace  to  the  generous  heart  essaying 
With  deeds  of  love  to  win  our  praise  ! 

He  smiles,  the  spring  of  life  surveying, 
Nor  fears  her  cold  and  wintry  days  : 

To  his  high  goal  with  triumph  bright 

The  calm  years  waft  him  in  their  flight. 

Thou  glorious  goal,  that  shin'st  afar, 

And  seem'st  to  smile  us  on  our  way, 
Bright  is  the  hope  that  crowns  our  war, 

The  dawn-blush  of  eternal  day ; 
There  shall  we  meet,  this  dark  world  o'er, 
And  mix  in  love  for  evermore. 
Translation  of  W.  8.  WALKEB.  THOMAS  THAARUP,  1T49-1S21. 


76  SPRING. 


SPRING. 

FROM   THK   GERMAN. 

Look  all  around  thee  !     How  the  spring  advances  ! 

New  life  is  playing  through  the  gay  green  trees  ; 
See  how,  in  yonder  bower,  the  light  leaf  dances 

To  the  bird's  tread,  and  to  the  quivering  breeze  ! 
How  every  blossom  in  the  sunlight  glances  ! 

The  winter  frost  to  his  dark  cavern  flees, 
And  earth,  warm-wakened,  feels  through  every  vein 
The  kindly  influence  of  the  vernal  rain. 
Now  silvery  streamlets,  from  the  mountains  stealing, 

Dance  joyously  the  verdant  vales  along  ; 
Cold  fear  no  more  the  songster's  voice  is  sealing  ; 

Down  in  the  thick  dark  grove  is  heard  his  song ; 
And,  all  their  bright  and  lovely  hues  revealing, 

A  thousand  plants  the  field  and  forest  throng ; 
Light  comes  upon  the  earth  in  radiant  showers, 
And  mingling  rainbows  play  among  the  flowers. 
Translation  of  C.  T.  BROOKS.  LUDWIG  TIECK, 

ODE. 

FROM   THE    SPANISH. 

'Tis  sweet,  in  the  green  spring, 
To  gaze  upon  the  wakening  fields  around  ; 

Birds  in  thicket  sing, 
Winds  whisper,  waters  prattle  from  the  ground  ; 

A  thousand  odors  rise, 
Breathed  up  from  blossoms  of  a  thousand  dyes. 

Shadowy,  and  close,  and  cool, 
The  pine  and  poplar  keep  their  quiet  nook ; 

For  ever  fresh  and  full, 
Shines  at  their  feet  the  thirst-inviting  brook ; 

And  the  soft  herbage  seems 
Spread  for  a  place  of  banquets  and  of  dreams. 

Thou,  who  alone  art  fair, 
And  whom  alone  I  love,  art  far  away  : 

Unless  thy  smile  be  there, 
It  makes  me  sad  to  see  the  earth  so  gay  : 

I  care  not  if  the  train 

Of  leaves,  and  flowers,  and  zephyrs  go  again  ! 
Translation  of  W.  G.  BRYANT.         ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE  VILLKGAS,  1595-1669. 


SPRING 


THE    AWAKENING    YEAR. 

The  blue-birds  and  the  violets 

Are  with  us  once  again, 
And  promises  of  summer  spot 

The  hill-side  and  the  plain. 

The  clouds  along  the  mountain-tops 

Are  riding  on  the  breeze, 
Their  trailing  azure  trains  of  mist 

Are  tangled  in  the  trees. 

The  snow-drifts,  which  have  lain  so  long, 

Haunting  the  hidden  nooks, 
Like  guilty  ghosts  have  slipped  away, 

Unseen,  into  the  brooks. 

The  streams  are  fed  with  generous  rain, 
They  drink  the  wayside  springs, 

And  flutter  down  from  crag  to  crag, 
Upon  their  foamy  wings. 

Through  all  the  long  wet  nights  they  brawl, 

By  mountain-homes  remote, 
Till  woodmen  in  their  sleep  behold 

Their  ample  rafts  afloat. 

The  lazy  wheel  that  hung  so  dry 

Above  the  idle  stream, 
Whirls  wildly  in  the  misty  dark, 

And  through  the  miller's  dream. 

Loud  torrent  unto  torrent  calls, 

Till  at  the  mountain's  feet 
Flashing  afar  their  spectral  light, 

The  noisy  waters  meet. 

They  meet,  and  through  the  lowlands  sweep, 

Toward  briny  bay  and  lake, 
Proclaiming  to  the  distant  towns 

"  The  country  is  awake  !" 


77 


T.  B.  R«a>. 


78  SPRING. 


SPRING    SCENE. 

Winter  is  past ;  the  heart  of  Nature  warms 

Beneath  the  wreck  of  unresisted  storms  ; 

Doubtful  at  first,  suspected  more  than  seen, 

The  southern  slopes  are  fringed  with  tender  green  ; 

On  sheltered  banks,  beneath  the  dripping  eaves, 

Spring's  earliest  nurslings  spread  their  glowing  leaves, 

Bright  with  the  hues  from  wider  pictures  won, 

White,  azure,  golden — drift,  or  sky,  or  sun  : 

The  snowdrop,  bearing  on  her  radiant  breast 

The  frozen  trophy  torn  from  winter's  crest ; 

The  violet,  gazing  on  the  arch  of  blue 

Till  her  own  iris  wears  its  deepened  hue ; 

The  spendthrift  crocus,  bursting  through  the  mold, 

Naked  and  shivering,  with  his  cup  of  gold. 

Swelled  with  new  life,  the  darkening  elm  on  high 

Prints  her  thick  buds  against  the  spotted  sky  ; 

On  all  her  boughs  the  stately  chestnut  cleaves 

The  gummy  shroud  that  wraps  her  embryo  leaves ; 

The  house-fly,  stealing  from  his  narrow  grave, 

Drugged  with  the  opiate  that  November  gave, 

Beats  with  faint  wing  against  the  snowy  pane, 

Or  crawls  tenacious  o'er  its  lucid  plain  ; 

From  shaded  chinks  of  lichen-crusted  walls 

In  languid  curves  the  gliding  serpent  crawls ; 

The  bog's  green  harper,  thawing  from  his  sleep 

Twangs  a  hoarse  note,  and  tries  a  shortened  leap. 

On  floating  rails  that  face  the  softening  noons 

The  still,  shy  turtles  range  their  dark  platoons, 

Or  toiling,  aimless,  o'er  the  mellowing  fields, 

Trail  through  the  grass  their  tesselated  shields. 

At  last  young  April,  ever  frail  and  fair, 

Wooed  by  her  playmate  with  the  golden  hair, 

Chased  to  the  margin  of  receding  floods, 

O'er  the  soft  meadows  starred  with  opening  buds, 

In  tears  and  blushes  sighs  herself  away, 

And  hides  her  cheek  beneath  the  flowers  of  May. 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


SPRING.  79 


SPRING. 


The  soft  west  wind,  returning,  brings  again 

Its  lovely  family  of  herbs  and  flowers  ; 
Progne's  gay  notes,  and  Philomela's  strain 

Vary  the  dance  of  spring-tide's  rosy  hours ; 
And  joyously  o'er  every  field  and  plain, 
Glows  the  bright  smile  that  greets  them  from  above, 
And  the  warm  spirit  of  reviving  love  I 

Breathes  in  the  air  and  murmurs  from  the  main. 
But  tears  and  sorrowing  sighs,  which  gushingly 

Pour  from  the  secret  chambers  of  my  heart, 
Are  all  that  spring  returning  brings  to  me ; 

And  in  the  modest  smile,  or  glance  of  art, 
The  song  of  birds,  the  bloom  of  heath  and  tree, 
A  desert's  rugged  tract  and  savage  forms  I  see. 
Translation  of  G.  W.  GBKBNK.  FRANCESCO  PKTRARCA,  1304-1374 


IV. 


THE  morning  song  of  Bellman,  commencing,  "  Up,  Ama- 
ryllis !"  is  one  of  the  most  celebrated  of  the  lyrical  poems 
of  Sweden.  We  are  told  that  nothing  can  exceed  the  enthu- 
siasm with  which  it  is  sung  in  that  country  by  high  and  low, 
old  and  young,  alike.  The  translation  inserted  in  the  ensuing 
pages  has  been  taken  from  the  interesting  work  of  the  How- 
itts,  on  the  "  Literature  of  Northern  Europe." 


MORNING    MELODIES. 

But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain  side  ; 
The  lowing  herd,  the  sheepfold's  simple  bell ; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 

In  the  lone  valley ;  echoing  far  and  wide 
The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above ; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean  tide  ; 
The  hum  of  bees,  the  linnet's  lay  of  love, 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove 


MORNING.  81 

The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 

Crown'd  with  her  pail  the  tripping  milk-maid  sings  ; 
The  whistling  plowman  stalks  afield  ;  and  hark  ! 

Down  the  rough  slope  the  ponderous  wagon  rings ; 

Through  rustling  corn  the  hare,  astonish'd,  springs ; 
Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour — 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings ; 
Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequester'd  bower, 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tour. 

JAMES  BEATTIE,  1735-1808. 

MORNING    WALK. 

The  morning  hath  not  lost  her  virgin  blush, 

Nor  step,  but  mine,  soil'd  the  earth's  tinsel'd  robe. 

How  full  of  Heaven  this  solitude  appears — 

This  healthful  comfort  of  the  happy  swain, 

Who  from  his  hard  but  peaceful  bed  roused  up, 

In  morning's  exercise  saluted  is 

By  a  full  choir  of  feather'd  choristers, 

Wedding  their  notes  to  the  enamor'd  air ! 

There  Nature,  in  her  unaffected  dress, 

Plaited  with  valleys,  and  emboss'd  with  hills, 

Enlaced  with  silver  streams,  and  fring'd  with  woods, 

Sits  lovely  in  her  native  russet. 

WILLIAM  CHAMBKRLATNB,  1619-1689. 

HYMN. 


Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 
In  his  steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald,  awful  head,  0  sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arne  and  Aveyron  at  thy  base 
Rove  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form ! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines 
How  silently  !     Around  thee  and  above, 
Deep  in  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black — 
An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it 
As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity ! 

0  dread  and  silent  mount !     I  gazed  upon  thee 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer, 

1  worshiped  the  Invisible  alone. 

4* 


82  MORNING. 

Yet  like  some  sweet,  beguiling  melody, 

So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 

Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending  with  my  thought, 

Yea,  with  my  life,  and  life's  own  secret  joy ; 

Till  the  dilating  soul,  enrapt,  transfused 

Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there, 

As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  heaven  ! 

Awake,  my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !     Awake,  my  heart,  awake ! 
Grim  vales  and  icy  cliffs  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  vale ! 
0  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink, 
Companion  of  the  morning-star,  and  of  the  dawn. 
Co-herald  :  wake,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents,  fiercely  glad ! 

Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death. 

From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 

Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 

Forever  shattered,  and  the  same  forever  ? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy, 

Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam  ? 

And  who  commanded  (arid  the  silence  came), 

Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge  ! 
Motionless  torrents !  silent  cataracts ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven, 
Beneath  the  keen,  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe  you  with  rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living  flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ? 
God  !     Let  the  torrent,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer,  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo  God  ! 
God  '.  sing  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice  ! 


MORNING.  83 

Ye  pine-groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds  ! 
And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  pool ! 

Ye  wild  goats,  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 

Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ! 

Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds ! 

Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  elements  ! 

Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise ! 

Thou  too,  hoar  mount !  with  the  sky-pointing  peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 

Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 

Into  the  depths  of  clouds,  that  vail  thy  breast — 

Thou  too,  again,  stupendous  mountain  !  thou 

That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 

In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 

Slow  traveling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 

Solemnly  seemed,  like  a  vapory  cloud, 

To  rise  before  me — rise,  0  ever  rise — 

Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense  from  the  earth ! 

Thou  kingly  spirit,  throned  among  the  hills, 

Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 

Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 

Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God ! 

8.  T.  COLERIDGE. 

MORNING. 

Wish'd  morning's  come ;  and  now  upon  the  plains 
And  distant  mountains,  where  they  feed  their  flocks, 
The  happy  shepherds  leave  their  homely  huts, 
And  with  their  pipes  proclaim  the  new-born  day ! 
The  lusty  swain  comes  with  his  well-fill'd  stoup 
Of  healthful  viands,  which,  when  hunger  calls, 
With  much  content  and  appetite  he  eats, 
To  follow  in  the  field  his  daily  toil, 
And  dress  the  grateful  glebe  that  yields  him  fruits. 
The  beasts,  that  under  the  warm  hedges  slept, 
And  weatlier'd  out  the  cold,  bleak  night,  are  up, 
And,  looking  toward  the  neighboring  pastures,  raise 
Their  voice,  and  bid  their  fellow-brutes  good-morrow! 
The  cheerful  birds,  too,  on  the  tops  of  trees, 
Assemble  all  in  choirs,  and  with  their  notes 
Salute  and  welcome  up  the  rising  sun. 

THOMAS  OTWAT,  1651-1685. 


84  MORNING. 


SPRING    MORNING    IN    ITALY. 

The  sun  is  up,  and  'tis  a  morn  of  May, 

Round  old  Ravenna's  clear-shown  towers  and  bay  ; 

A  morn,  the  loveliest  which  the  year  has  seen — 

Last  of  the  spring,  yet  fresh  with  all  its  green : 

For  a  warm  eve,  and  gentle  rains  at  night, 

Have  left  a  sparkling  welcome  for  the  light ; 

And  there's  a  crystal  clearness  all  about ; 

The  leaves  are  sharp ;  the  distant  hills  look  out ; 

A  balmy  briskness  comes  upon  the  breeze  ; 

The  smoke  goes  dancing  from  the  cottage  trees ; 

And  when  you  listen,  you  may  hear  a  coil, 

Of  bubbling  springs  about  the  grassy  soil ; 

And  all  the  scene,  in  short — sky,  earth,  and  sea — 

Breathes  like  a  bright-eyed  face,  that  laughs  out  openly. 

'Tis  nature  full  of  spirits,  waked  and  springing ; 

The  birds  to  the  delicious  time  are  singing, 

Darting  with  freaks  and  snatches  up  and  down, 

Where  the  light  woods  go  seaward  from  the  town  ; 

While  happy  faces  striking  through  the  green 

Of  leafy  roads  at  every  town  are  seen. 

And  the  far  ships,  lifting  their  sails  of  white, 

Like  joyful  hands,  come  up  with  scattery  light — 

Come  gleaming  up,  true  to  the  wished-for  day, 

And  chase  the  whistling  brine  and  swirl  into  the  bay. 

Already  in  the  streets  the  stir  grows  loud, 

Of  expectation  and  a  bustling  crowd ; 

With  feet  and  voice  the  gathering  hum  contends, 

The  deep  talk  heaves,  the  ready  laugh  ascends  ; 

Callings,  and  clapping  doors,  and  curs  unite, 

And  shouts  from  mere  exuberance  of  delight ; 

And  armed  bands,  making  important  way, 

Gallant  and  grave,  the  lords  of  holiday ; 

And  nodding  neighbors,  greeting  as  they  run ; 

And  pilgrims  chanting  in  the  morning  sun. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


MORNING  85 


UP,    AMARYLLIS! 

SWEDISH. 

Waken,  thou  fair  one  !  up,  Amaryllis ! 

Morning  so  still  is ; 

Cool  is  the  gale  : 

The  rainbows  of  heaven, 

With  its  hues  seven, 

Brightness  hath  given 

To  wood  and  dale. 

Sweet  Amaryllis,  let  me  convey  thee ; 
In  Neptune's  arms  naught  shall  affray  thee ; 
Sleep's  god  no  longer  power  has  to  stay  thee, 
Over  thy  eyes  and  speech  to  prevail. 

Come  out  a-fishing ;  nets  forth  are  carrying ; 

Come  without  tarrying — 

Hasten  with  me. 

Jerkin  and  vail  in — 

Come  for  the  sailing, 

For  trout  and  grayling  : 

Baits  will  lay  we. 

Awake,  Amaryllis  !  dearest,  awaken ; 
Let  me  not  go  forth  by  thee  forsaken ; 
Our  course  among  dolphins  and  sirens  taken, 
Onward  shall  paddle  our  boat  to  the  sea. 

Bring  rod  and  line — bring  nets  for  the  landing  ; 

Morn  is  expanding, 

Hasten  away ! 

Sweet !  no  denying, 

Frowning,  or  sighing — 

Could'st  thou  be  trying 

To  answer  me  nay  ? 

Hence,  on  the  shallows,  our  little  boat  leaving, 
Or  to  the  Sound  where  green  waves  are  heaving, 
Where  our  true  love  its  first  bond  was  weaving, 
Causing  to  Thirsis  so  much  dismay. 

Step  in  the  boat,  then !  both  of  us  singing, 
Love  afresh  springing, 
O'er  us  shall  reign. 
If  the  storm  rages, 
If  it  war  wages, 
Thy  love  assuages 
Terror  and  pain. 


86  MORNING. 

Calm  'mid  the  billows'  wildest  commotion, 
I  would  defy  on  thy  bosom  the  ocean, 
Or  would  attend  thee  to  death  with  devotion  : 
Sing,  0  ye  sirens,  and  mimic  my  strain  ! 
Translation  of  MKS.  HOWITT.  CARL  MICHAEL  BELLMANN,  1740-1795. 


THE    MOKNING    WALK. 

FBOM   THE  DANISH. 

To  the  beech-grove,  with  so  sweet  an  air, 

It  beckoned  me ; 
0  Earth !  that  never  the  plowshare 

Had  furrowed  thee ! 
In  their  dark  shelter  the  flowerets  grew, 

Bright  to  the  eye, 
And  smiled,  at  my  feet,  on  the  cloudless  blue 

Which  decked  the  sky. 
****** 

0  lovely  field,  and  forest  fair, 

And  meads  grass-clad ! 
Her  bride-bed  Freya  everywhere 

Enameled  had ; 
The  corn-flowers  rose  in  azure  bond 

From  earthly  cell ; 
Naught  else  could  I  do  but  stop,  and  stand, 

And  greet  them  well. 

"  Welcome  on  earth's  green  breast  again, 

Ye  flowerets  dear ! 
In  Spring  how  charming,  'mid  the  grain, 

Your  heads  ye  rear ! 
Like  stars  'midst  lightning's  yellow  ray 

Ye  shine  red,  blue  : 
0  how  your  Summer  aspect  gay 

Delights  my  view !" 

"  0  poet,  poet,  silence  keep, 

God  help  thy  case ! 
Our  owner  holds  us  sadly  cheap, 

And  scorns  our  race  ; 
Each  time  he  sees  he  calls  us  scum, 

Or  worthless  tares, 
Hell-weeds,  that  but  to  vex  him  come 

'Midst  his  corn-ears." 


MORNING.  87 

"  0  wretched  mortals !  0  wretched  man ! 

0  wretched  crowd ! 
No  pleasures  ye  pluck,  no  pleasures  ye  plan, 

In  life's  lone  road — 
Whose  eyes  are  blind  to  the  glories  great 

Of  the  works  of  God, 
And  dream  that  the  mouth  is  the  nearest  gate 

To  joy's  abode ! 

"  Come,  flowers  !  for  we  to  each  other  belong, 

Come,  graceful  elf, 
And  around  my  lute  in  sympathy  strong 

Now  wind  thyself; 
And  quake  as  if  moved  by  zephyr's  wing, 

'Neath  the  clang  of  the  chord ; 
And  a  morning  song  with  glee  we'll  sing 

To  our  Maker  and  Lord." 
Anonymous  Translation.  ADAM  GOTTLOB  OCHLENSIILAGEB,  17T9. 


DANISH    MORNING    SONG. 

From  eastern  quarters  now 

The  sun's  up  wandering ; 
His  rays  on  the  rock's  brow, 

And  hill-side  squandering. 
Be  glad,  my  soul !  and  sing  amid  thy  pleasure 
Fly  from  the  house  of  dust, 
Up  with  thy  thanks,  and  burst 

To  heaven's  azure. 

0,  countless  as  the  grains 

Of  sand  so  tiny — 
Measureless  as  the  main's 

Deep  waters  briny ; 

God's  mercy  is  which  he  upon  me  showeth  ! 
Each  morning  in  my  shell, 
A  grace  immeasurable 

To  me  down-poureth. 

Thou  best  does  understand, 

Lord  God  !  my  needing, 
And  placed  is  in  thy  hand, 

My  fortune's  speeding. 


88  MORNING. 

And  thou  foreseest  what  is  for  ine  most  fitting ; 
Be  still,  then,  0  my  soul ! 
To  manage  in  the  whole, 
Thy  God  permitting ! 

May  fruit  the  land  array, 

And  even  for  eating  ! 
May  truth  e'er  make  its  way, 

With  justice  meeting ! 

Give  Thou  to  me  my  share  with  every  other, 
Till  down  my  staff  I  lay, 
And  from  this  world  away 

Wend  to  another ! 
TrandlaUon  offt.  "W.  LONGFELLOW.  THOMAS  KINGO,  1634-1728. 


SUMMER    MORNING    SONG. 


FROM    THE    DUTCH. 


Up,  sleeper  !  dreamer,  up !  for  now 
There's  gold  upon  the  mountain's  brow — 

There's  light  on  forests,  lakes,  and  meadows : 
The  dew-drops  shine  on  floweret  bells  ; 
The  village  clock  of  morning  tells. 
Up,  man  !     Out,  cattle  !  for  the  dells 

And  dingles  teem  with  shadows. 

Up !  out !  o'er  furrow  and  o'er  field  ! 
The  claims  of  toil  some  moments  yield, 

For  morning's  bliss  and  time  is  fleeter 
Than  thought ;  so  out !  'tis  dawning  yet ; 
Why  twilight's  lovely  hour  forget  ? 
For  sweet  though  be  the  workman's  sweat, 

The  wanderer's  sweat  is  sweeter. 

Up  !  to  the  fields  !  through  shine  and  stour  ! 
What  hath  the  dull  and  drowsy  hour 

So  blest  as  this — the  glad  heart  leaping, 
To  hear  morn's  early  song  sublime  ? 
See  earth  rejoicing  in  its  prime ! 
The  summer  is  the  waking  time, 

The  winter,  time  for  sleeping. 

0  fool !  to  sleep  such  hours  away, 
While  blushing  nature  wakes  to  day, 

Or  down  through  summer  morning  soaring ! 


MORNING  89 

Tis  meet  for  thee  the  winter  long, 
When  snows  fall  fast,  and  winds  blow  strong, 
To  waste  the  night  amid  the  throng, 
Their  vinous  poisons  pouring. 

The  very  beast  that  crops  the  flower 
Hath  welcome  for  the  dawning  hour  : 

Aurora  smiles  ;  her  beckonings  claim  thee. 
Listen  !  look  round  !  the  chirp,  the  hum, 
Song,  low,  and  bleat — there's  nothing  dumb — 
All  love,  all  life  !    Come  slumberer,  come ! 

The  meanest  thing  shall  shame  thee. 

We  come — we  come — our  wanderings  take 
Through  dewy  field,  by  misty  lake, 

And  rugged  paths,  and  woods  pervaded 
By  branches  o'er,  by  flowers  beneath, 
Making  earth  odorous  with  their  breath ; 
Or  through  the  shadeless  gold-gorze  heath, 

Or  'neath  the  poplars  shaded. 

Were  we  of  feather,  or  of  fin, 
How  blest  to  dash  the  river  in, 

Thread  the  rock-stream,  as  it  advances — 
Or,  better,  like  the  birds  above, 
Rise  to  the  greenest  of  the  grove, 
And  sing  the  matin  song  of  love, 

Amid  the  highest  branches  ! 

0  thus  to  revel,  thus  to  range, 

I'll  yield  the  counter,  bank,  or  'Change — 

The  busier  crowds  all  peace  destroying  : 
The  toil  with  snow  that  roofs  our  brains, 
The  seeds  of  care  which  harvests  pains ; 
The  wealth  for  more  which  strains  and  strains, 

Still  less  and  less  enjoying ! 

0,  happy  who  the  city's  noise, 
Can  quit  for  nature's  quiet  joys — 

Quit  worldly  sin  and  worldly  sorrow ; 
No  more  'midst  prison  walls  abide, 
But  in  God's  temple,  vast  and  wide, 
Pour  praises  every  eventide, 

Ask  mercies  every  morrow  ! 

No  seraph's  flaming  sword  hath  driven  » 

That  man  from  Eden  or  from  Heaven — 
From  earth's  sweet  smiles  and  winning  features ; 


90  MORNING. 

For  him  by  toils  and  troubles  toss'd, 
By  wealth  and  wearying  cares  engross'd, 
For  him  a  Paradise  is  lost, 
But  not  for  happy  creatures  ! 

Come — though  a  glance  it  may  be — come — 
Enjoy,  improve ;  then  hurry  home, 

For  life  strong  urgencies  must  bind  us  ! 
Yet  mourn  not ;  morn  shall  wake  anew, 
And  we  shall  wake  to  bless  it  new. 
Homewards !  the  herds  that  shake  the  dew, 

We'll  leave  in  peace  behind  us  ! 
Anonymous  Translation.  II.  TOLLENS,  li 


V. 


f  ark  anfo  pjp 


THE  voices  of  these  two  noblest  of  the  singing-birds  of  the 
Old  World  may  be  heard,  in  echoing  accompaniment, 
throughout  the  prolonged  choir  of  European  poets,  from  the 
earliest  dawn  of  civilization  to  the  present  hour.  There  are 
few  poems  of  any  length,  in  either  of  the  languages  of  Eu- 
rope, in  which  some  allusion  to  one  or  the  other  has  not  a 
place.  The  noblest  poets  of  the  earth  were  born  companions 
to  these  birds  ;  beneath  skies  saluted  by  the  lark,  among  groves 
haunted  by  the  nightingale.  These  little  creatures  sung  with 
Homer  and  Sappho  among  the  isles  of  Greece — for  Virgil  and 
Horace  on  the  plains  of  Italy  ;  they  cheered  Dante  in  his  life- 
long wandering  exile,  and  Petrarch  in  his  solitary  hermitage. 
Conceive  also  the  joy  with  which  Chaucer,  and  Shakspeare, 
and  Spenser  listened,  each  in  his  day,  among  the  daisied 
fields  of  England,  to  music  untaught,  instinctive  like  their 
own !  What  pure  delight,  indeed,  have  these  birds  not  given 


92  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

to  the  heart  of  genius  during  thousands  of  springs  and  sum- 
mers !  How  many  generations  have  they  not  charmed  with 
their  undying  melodies !  They  would  almost  seem  by  their 
sweetness  to  have  soothed  the  inexorable  powers  of  Time 
and  Death.  Were  an  old  Greek  or  an  ancient  Roman  to 
rise  from  the  dust  this  summer's  day — were  he  to  awaken, 
after  ages  of  sleep,  to  walk  his  native  soil  again,  scarce  an 
object  on  which  his  eye  fell  would  wear  a  familiar  aspect ; 
scarce  a  sound  which  struck  his  ear  but  would  vibrate  there 
most  strangely  ;  yet  with  the  dawn,  rising  from  the  plain  of 
Marathon,  or  the  Latin  Hills,  he  would  hear  the  same  noble 
lark  which  sung  in  his  boyhood  ;  and  with  the  moon,  among 
the  olives  and  ilexes  shading  the  fallen  temple,  would  come 
the  same  sweet  nightingale  which  entranced  his  youth. 

THE    NOTE    OF    THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


DEAR  GREY — In  defense  of  my  opinion  about  the  nightingales,  I  find 
Chaucer — who  of  all  poets  seems  to  have  been  the  fondest  of  the  singing 
of  birds — calls  it  a  merry  note ;  and  though  Theocritus  mentions  night- 
ingales six  or  seven  times,  he  never  mentions  their  note  as  plaintive  or 
melancholy.  It  is  true  he  does  not  call  it  anywhere  merry,  as  Chaucer 
does,  but  by  mentioning  it  with  the  song  of  the  blackbird,  and  as  an- 
swering it,  he  seems  to  imply  that  it  was  a  cheerful  note.  Sophocles  is 
against  us  ;  but  he  says,  "  lamenting  Itys,"  and  the  comparison  of  her 
to  Electra  is  rather  as  to  perseverance,  day  and  night,  than  as  to  sor- 
row. At  all  events,  a  tragic  poet  is  not  half  so  good  authority  in  this 
question  as  Theocritus  and  Chaucer.  I  can  not  light  upon  the  passage 
in  the  "  Odyssey,"  where  Penelope's  restlessness  is  compared  to  the  night- 
ingale, but  I  am  sure  it  is  only  as  to  restlessness  that  he  makes  the  com- 
parison. If  you  will  read  the  last  twelve  books  of  the  "  Odyssey"  you  will 
certainly  find  it,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  be  paid  for  your  hunt,  whether 
you  find  it  or  not.  The  passage  in  Chaucer  is  in  the  "  Flower  and  Leaf." 
The  one  I  particularly  allude  to  in  Theocritus  is  in  his  "  Epigrams,"  I 
think  in  the  fourth.  Dryden  has  transferred  the  word  merry  to  the 
goldfinch,  in  the  "  Flower  and  the  Leaf" — in  deference,  may  be,  to  the 
vulgar  error.  But  pray  read  his  description  of  the  nightingale  there ; 
it  is  quite  delightful.  I  am  afraid  that  I  like  these  researches  as  much 
better  than  those  that  relate  to*  Shaftesbury  and  Sunderland,  as  I  do 
those  better  than  attending  the  House  of  Commons. 

Yours  affectionately,  C.  J.  Fox 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  93 

The  nightingale  with  so  merry  a  note 

Answered  him,  that  all  the  wood  rong 
So  sodainly,  that  as  it  were  a  sote, 

I  stood  astonied,  so  was  I  with  the  song 

Thorow  ravished,  that  till  late  and  long 
I  ne  wist  in  what  place  I  was,  ne  where ; 
And  ayen,  me  thought,  she  song  ever  by  mine  ear. 

CHAUCER'S  "  Flower  and  Leaf? 

A  goldfinch  there  I  saw,  with  gaudy  pride 
Of  painted  plumes,  that  hopp'd  from  side  to  side, 
Still  perching  as  she  pass'd  ;  and  still  she  drew 
The  sweets  from  every  flower,  and  sucked  the  dew : 
Suffic'd  at  length,  she  warbled  in  her  throat, 
And  tun'd  her  voice  to  many  a  merry  note, 
But  indistinct,  and  neither  sweet  nor  clear. 
Her  short  performance  was  no  sooner  tried, 
When  she  I  sought,  the  nightingale,  replied  : 
So  sweet,  so  shrill,  so  variously  she  sung, 
That  the  grove  echoed,  and  the  valleys  rung ; 
And  I  so  ravish'd  with  her  heavenly  note, 
I  stood  entranc'd,  and  had  no  room  for  thought ; 
But  all  o'erpower'd  with  an  ecstasy  of  bliss, 
Was  in  a  pleasing  dream  of  Paradise. 

DEYDKN'S  "Flower  and  Leaf." 


As  when  the  months  are  clad  in  flowery  green, 

Sad  Philomel,  in  bowery  shades  unseen, 

To  vernal  airs  attunes  her  varied  strains, 

And  Itylus  sound  warbling  o'er  the  plains. 

Young  Itylus  !  his  parent's  darling  joy, 

Whom  chance  misled  the  mother  to  destroy, 

Now  doom'd  a  wakeful  bird  to  wail  the  beauteous  boy. 

So  in  nocturnal  solitude  forlorn, 

A  sad  variety  of  woes  I  mourn. 

Odyssey,  Book  XIX. 


SONNET. 

0,  nightingale,  that  on  yon  bloomy  spray, 
Warblest  at  eve,  when  all  the  woods  are  still ; 
Thou  with  fresh  hope  the  lover's  heart  dost  fill, 

While  the  jolly  hours  lead  on  propitious  May. 

Thy  liquid  notes,  that  close  the  eye  of  day, 


94  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

First  heard  before  the  shallow  cuckoo's  bill, 

Portend  success  in  love ;  0  if  Jove's  will 
Have  link'd  that  amorous  power  to  thy  soft  lay, 

Now  timely  sing,  ere  the  rude  bird  of  hate 
Foretell  my  hopeless  doom  in  some  grove  nigh. 

As  thou  from  year  to  year  hast  sung  too  late 
For  my  relief,  yet  hadst  no  reason  why  : 

Whether  the  muse  or  love  call  thee  his  mate, 
Both  them  I  serve,  and  of  their  train  am  I. 

JOHN  MILTON. 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 

APRIL,  1798. 

No  cloud,  no  relic  of  the  sunken  day, 
Distinguishes  the  west ;  no  long,  thin  slip 
Of  sullen  light— no  obscure,  trembling  hues. 
Come ;  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge ! 
You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 
But  hear  no  murmuring ;  it  flows  silently 
O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.     All  is  still — 
A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 
Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 
That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  find 
A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 
And  hark !  the  nightingale  begins  its  song, 
"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"  bird ! 
A  melancholy  bird !     Oh,  idle  thought ! 
In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 
*     *     *     'Tis  the  merrry  nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast,  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  lone  chant,  and  disburden  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music ! 

I  know  a  grove 

Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge, 
Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood. 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass — 
Thin  grass,  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  nightingales ;  and  far  and  near, 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  95 

In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove 

They  answer,  and  provoke  each  other's  song 

With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 

And  murmurs  musical,  and  swift  jug-jug, 

And  one  low,  piping  sound,  more  sweet  than  all, 

Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony, 

That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 

Forget  it  was  not  day !     On  moonlit  bushes, 

Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half  disclosed, 

You  may,  perchance,  behold  them  on  the  twigs, 

Their  bright,  bright  eyes — their  eyes  both  bright  and  full, 

Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 

Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  maid, 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home, 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve 
(Even  like  a  lady,  vowed  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  Nature  in  the  grove), 
Glides  through  the  pathways ;  she  knows  all  their  notes, 
That  gentle  maid !  and  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence ;  till  the  moon 
Emerging,  hath  awakened  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy, 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps !  and  she  hath  watched 
Many  a  nightingale  perched  giddily 
On  blossoming  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song, 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


ODE    TO    A    NIGHTINGALE. 

My  heart  aches,  and  a  drowsy  numbness  pains 

My  sense,  as  though  of  hemlock  I  had  drunk, 
Or  emptied  some  dull  opiate  to  the  drains 

One  minute  past,  and  Lethe-ward  sunk  : 
'Tis  not  through  envy  of  thy  happy  lot, 

But  being  too  happy  in  thy  happiness, 
Than  thou,  light- winged  Dryad  of  the  trees, 
In  some  melodious  plot 

Of  beechen  green,  and  shadows  numberless, 
Singest  of  summer  in  full-throated  ease. 


96  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

Oh  for  a  draught  of  vintage, 

Cooled  a  long  age  in  the  deep-delved  earth, 
Tasting  of  Flora  and  the  country  green, 

Dance,  and  Prove^al  song,  and  sun-burned  mirth  ! 
Oh  for  a  beaker  full  of  the  warm  South, 

Full  of  the  true,  the  blushful  Hippocrene, 
With  beaded  bubbles  winking  at  the  brim, 
And  purple-stained  mouth, 

That  I  might  drink,  and  leave  the  world  unseen, 
And  with  thee  fade  away  into  the  forest  dim. 

Fade  far  away,  dissolve,  and  quite  forget 

What  thou  among  the  leaves  hast  never  known, 
The  weariness,  the  fever,  and  the  fret ; 

Here,  where  men  sit  and  hear  each  other  groan — 
Where  palsy  shakes  a  few  sad,  last  gray  hairs — 

Where  youth  grows  pale,  and  specter-thin,  and  dies  ; 
Where  but  to  think  is  to  be  full  of  sorrow, 
And  leaden-eyed  despairs ; 

Where  beauty  can  not  keep  her  lustrous  eyes, 
Or  new  love  pine  at  them  beyond  to-morrow. 

Away  !  away  !  for  I  will  fly  to  thee, 

Not  charioted  by  Bacchus  and  his  pards, 
But  on  the  viewless  wings  of  poesy, 

Though  the  dull  train  perplexes  and  retards ; 
Already  with  thee  tender  is  the  night, 

And  haply  the  queen-moon  is  on  her  throne, 
Clustered  around  by  all  her  starry  fays ; 
But  here  there  is  no  light, 

Save  what  from  heaven  is  with  the  breezes  blown 
Through  verdurous  glooms  and  winding  mossy  ways. 

I  can  not  see  what  flowers  are  at  my  feet, 

Nor  what  soft  incense  hangs  upon  the  boughs, 
But,  in  embalmed  darkness,  guess  each  sweet 

Wherewith  the  seasonable  month  endows 
The  grass,  the  thicket,  and  the  fruit-tree  wild  ; 

White  hawthorn,  and  the  pastoral  eglantine ; 
Fast-fading  violets,  covered  up  in  leaves, 
And  mid-May's  oldest  child, 

The  coming  musk-rose,  full  of  dewy  wine, 
The  murmurous  haunt  of  bees  on  summer  eves. 

Darkling  I  listen ;  and  for  many  a  time 
I  have  been  half  in  love  with  easeful  death, 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  97 

Called  him  soft  names  in  many  a  mused  rhyme, 

To  take  into  the  air-  my  quiet  breath ; 
Now,  more  than  ever,  seems  it  rich  to  die, 

To  cease  upon  the  midnight,  with  no  pain, 
While  thou  art  pouring  forth  thy  soul  abroad, 
In  such  an  ecstasy  ! 

Still  wouldst  thou  sing,  and  I  have  ears  in  vain— 
To  thy  high  requiem  become  a  sod. 

Thou  wast  not  born  for  death,  immortal  bird  ! 

No  hungry  generations  tread  thee  down ; 
The  voice  I  hear  this  passing  night  was  heard 

In  ancient  days  by  emperor  and  clown  : 
Perhaps  the  self-same  song  that  found  a  path 

Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  in  tears  amid  the  alien  corn  : 
The  same  that  oft-times  hath 

Charmed  magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas,  in  fairy  lands  forlorn. 

Forlorn !  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell, 

To  toll  me  back  from  thee  to  my  sole  self ! 
Adieu  !  the  fancy  can  not  cheat  so  well 

As  she  is  famed  to  do,  deceiving  elf. 
Adieu !  adieu !  thy  plaintive  anthem  fades 

Past  the  near  meadows,  over  the  still  stream, 
Up  the  hill- side ;  and  now  'tis  buried  deep 
In  the  next  valley-glades  : 

Was  it  a  vision  or  a  waking  dream  ? 
Fled  is  that  music— do  I  wake  or  sleep  ? 

JOHN  KEATS,  1796-1820. 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


FROM    THE    DUTCH. 


Prize  thou  the  nightingale, 
Who  soothes  thee  with  his  tale, 
And  wakes  the  woods  around ; 
A  singing  feather,  he — a  winged  and  wandering  sound : 

Whose  tender  carroling 
Sets  all  ears  listening 
Unto  that  living  lyre, 

Whence  flow  the  airy  notes  his  ecstasies  inspire ; 
5 


98  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

Whose  shrill,  capricious  song, 
Breathes  like  a  flute  along, 
With  many  a  careless  tone — 
Music  of  thousand  tongues,  formed  by  one  tongue  alone. 

0  charming  creature  rare, 
Can  aught  with  thee  compare  ? 
Thou  art  all  song — thy  breast 
Thrills  for  one  month  o'  th'  year — is  tranquil  all  the  rest. 

Thee  wondrous  we  may  call — 
Most  wondrous  this  of  all, 
That  such  a  tiny  throat 
Should  wake  so  loud  a  sound,  and  pour  so  loud  a  note. 

MARIA  TESSELSCHADE  VISSCHER — Born  in  the  16£A  c&ntury. 
Translation  of  DR.  BOWRING. 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 

FROM    THE    PORTUGUESE. 

The  rose  looks  out  in  the  valley, 

And  thither  will  I  go  ! 
To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  virgin  is  on  the  river  side, 

Culling  the  lemons  pale  : 
Thither — yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

The  fairest  fruit  her  hand  hath  cull'd, 

'Tis  for  her  lover  all : 
Thither — yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 

To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 
Sings  his  song  of  woe. 

In  her  hat  of  straw,  for  her  gentle  swain, 

She  has  placed  the  lemons  pale  : 
Thither — yes  !  thither  will  I  go, 
To  the  rosy  vale,  where  the  nightingale 

Sings  his  song  of  woe. 
Translation  of  JOHN  BOWRING.  GIL  VICENTE,  1480-1557. 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE  99 


THE    MOTHER    BIRD. 

SIMILE   FBOM    "  U1VI.VA    COMMKDIA." 

Like  as  the  bird  who  on  her  nest  all  night 

Had  rested,  darkling  with  her  tender  brood, 
'Mid  the  loved  foliage,  longing  now  for  light, 

To  gaze  on  their  dear  looks,  and  bring  them  food  : 
Sweet  task  !  whose  pleasures  all  its  toil  repay — 

Anticipates  the  dawn,  and  through  the  wood 
Ascending,  perches  on  the  topmost  spray; 

There,  all  impatience,  watching  to  descry 
The  first  faint  glimmer  of  approaching  day  : 

Thus  did  my  lady  toward  the  southern  sky, 
Erect  and  motionless,  her  visage  turn ; 

The  mute  suspense  that  filled  her  wistful  eye, 
Made  me  like  one  who  waits  a  friend's  return, 
Lives  on  this  hope,  and  will  no  other  own. 
Translation  ofF.  C.  GRAY.  DANTE  ALIGHIERI,  1265-1821. 


THE    MOTHER    NIGHTINGALE 

FROM   THE   SPANISH. 

I  have  seen  a -nightingale, 
On  a  sprig  of  thyme  bewail, 
Seeing  the  dear  nest,  which  was 
Hers  alone,  borne  off,  alas  ! 
By  a  laborer.    I  heard, 
For  this  outrage,  the  poor  bird 
Say  a  thousand  mournful  things 
To  the  wind,  which,  on  its  wings, 
From  her  to  the  guardian  of  the  sky, 
Bore  her  melancholy  cry — 
Bore  her  tender  tears.     She  spake 
As  if  her  fond  heart  would  break  : 
One  while,  in  a  sad,  sweet  note, 
Gurgled  from  her  straining  throat ; 
She  enforced  her  piteous  tale, 
Mournful  prayer,  and  plaintive  wail ; 
One  while  witli  the  shrill  dispute, 
Quite  outwearied,  she  was  mute; 
Then  afresh  for  her  dear  brood, 
Her  harmonious  shrieks  renewed. 


100  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

Now  she  winged  it  round  and  round ; 
Now  she  skimmed  along  the  ground ; 
Now,  from  bough  to  bough,  in  haste, 
The  delighted  robber  chased, 
And,  alighting  in  his  path, 
Seemed  to  say,  'twixt  grief  and  wrath, 
"  Give  me  back,  fierce  rustic  rude — 
Give  me  back  my  pretty  brood !" 
And  I  saw  the  rustic  still 
Answered,  "  That  I  never  will !" 
Translation  of  T.  KOSCOE.  ESTEVAN  MANUEL  DE  VILLEGAS,  1595-1669. 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


FROM   THE    DUTCH. 


Soul  of  living  music,  teach  me— 
Teach  me,  floating  thus  along ! 

Love- sick  warbler,  come  and  reach  me 
With  the  secrets  of  thy  song  ! 

How  thy  beak,  so  sweetly  trembling, 
On  one  note  long  lingering  tries ; 

Or  a  thousand  tones  assembling, 
Pour  the  rush  of  harmonies  ! 

Or  when  rising  shrill  and  shriller, 

Other  music  dies  away — 
Other  songs  grow  still  and  stiller, 

Songster  of  the  night  and  day  ! 

Till — all  sunk  to  silence  round  thee — 
Not  a  whisper — not  a  word — 

Not  a  leaf-fall  to  confound  thee — 
Breathless  all — thou  only  heard. 

Tell  me,  thou  who  failest  never, 
Minstrel  of  the  songs  of  spring  ! 

Did  the  world  see  ages  ever, 
When  thy  voice  forgot  to  sing  ? 

Is  there  in  your  woodland  history 
Any  Homer,  whom  ye  read  ? 

Has  your  music  aught  of  mystery  ? 
Has  it  measure,  cliff,  and  creed  ? 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  101 

Have  ye  teachers  who  instruct  ye — 

Checking  each  ambitious  strain — 
Learned  parrots  to  conduct  ye, 

When  ye  wander  back  again  ? 

Smiling  at  my  dreams,  I  see  thee, 

Nature,  in  her  chainless  will, 
Did  not  fetter  thee,  but  free  thee — 

Pour  thy  hymns  of  rapture  still ! 

Plumed  in  pomp,  and  pride  prodigious, 

Lo !  the  gaudy  peacock  rears ; 
But  his  grating  voice  so  hideous, 

Shocks  the  soul  and  grates  the  ears. 

Finches  may  be  trained  to  follow 
Notes  which  dexterous  arts  combine ; 

But  those  notes  sound  vain  and  hollow 
When  compared,  sweet  bird,  with  thine. 

Classic  themes  no  longer  courting — 

Ancient  tongues  I'll  cast  away, 
And  with  nightingales  disporting, 

Sing  the  wild  and  woodland  lay ! 
Anonymous  Translation.  LOOTS,  a  living  Dutch  Poet. 


NEST    OF    THE    NIGHTINGALE. 

Up  this  green  woodland  side  let's  softly  rove, 
And  list  the  nightingale ;  she  dwells  just  here. 
Hush !  let  the  wood-gate  softly  clap,  for  fear 
The  noise  might  drive  her  from  her  home  of  love ; 
For  here  I've  heard  her  many  a  merry  year — 
At  morn,  at  eve — nay,  all  the  live-long  day, 
As  though  she  lived  on  song.     This  very  spot, 
Just  where  the  old-man's-beard  all  wildly  trails 
Rude  arbors  o'er  the  road,  and  stops  the  way ; 
And  where  the  child  its  blue-bell  flowers  hath  got. 
Laughing  and  creeping  through  the  mossy  rails ; 
There  have  I  hunted  like  a  very  boy, 
Creeping  on  hands  and  knees  through  matted  thorn, 
To  find  her  nest,  and  see  her  feed  her  young, 
And  vainly  did  I  many  hours  employ : 


102  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE 

All  seemed  as  hidden  as  a  thought  unborn ; 

And  where  those  crumpling  fern-leaves  ramp  among 

The  hazel's  under-boughs,  I've  nestled  down 

And  watch'd  her  while  she  sang ;  and  her  renown 

Hath  made  me  marvel  that  so  famed  a  bird 

Should  have  no  better  dress  than  russet  brown. 

Her  wings  would  tremble  in  her  ecstasy, 

And  feathers  stand  on  end,  as  'twere  with  joy ; 

And  mouth  wide  open  to  release  her  heart 

Of  its  out-sobbing  songs.     The  happiest  part 

Of  summer's  fame  she  shared,  for  so  to  me 

Did  happy  fancy  shapen  her  employ. 

But  if  I  touched  a  bush,  or  scarcely  stirred. 

All  in  a  moment  stopt.     I  watched  in  vain : 

The  timid  bird  had  left  the  hazel  bush, 

And  oft  in  distance  hid  to  sing  again. 

Lost  in  a  wilderness  of  listening  leaves, 

Rich  ecstasy  would  pour  its  luscious  strain, 

Till  envy  spurred  the  emulating  thrush 

To  start  less  wild  and  scarce  inferior  songs ; 

For  while  of  half  the  year  care  him  bereaves, 

To  damp  the  ardor  of  his  speckled  breast, 

The  nightingale  to  summer's  life  belongs, 

And  naked  trees,  and  winter's  nipping  wrongs 

Are  strangers  to  her  music,  and  her  rest. 

Her  joys  are  ever  green — her  world  is  wide  ! 

Hark  !  there  she  is,  as  usual ;  let's  be  hush  ; 

For  in  this  black-thorn  clump,  if  rightly  guessed, 

Her  curious  house  is  hidden.     Part  aside 

Those  hazel  branches  in  a  gentle  way, 

And  stoop  right  cautious  'neath  the  rustling  boughs, 

For  we  will  have  another  search  to-day, 

And  hunt  this  fern-strewn  thorn-clump  round  and  round : 

And  where  this  reeded  wood-grass  idly  bows, 

We'll  wade  right  through  ;  it  is  a  likely  nook. 

In  such  like  spots,  and  often  on  the  ground 

They'll  build,  where  rude  boys  never  think  to  look. 

Ay !  as  I  live !  her  secret  nest  is  here, 

Upon  this  white- thorn  stump !     *     *     * 

We  will  not  plunder  music  of  its  dower, 

Nor  turn  this  spot  of  happiness  to  thrall, 

For  melody  seems  hid  in  every  flower 

That  blossoms  near  thy  home.    These  blue-bells  all 

Seem  bowing  with  the  beautiful  in  song ; 

And  gaping  cuckoo-flower,  with  spotted  leaves, 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  103 

Seems  blushing  of  the  singing  it  has  heard. 
How  curious  is  the  nest !     No  other  bird 
Uses  such  loose  materials,  or  weaves 
Its  dwelling  in  such  spots  !     Dead  oaken  leaves 
Are  placed  without,  and  velvet  moss  within ; 
And  little  scraps  of  grass,  and  scant  and  spare, 
What  hardly  seem  materials,  down  and  hair  ; 
For  from  men's  haunts  she  nothing  seems  to  win. 

JOHN  CLABE. 


THE    NIGHTINGALE. 


Sweet  bird,  that  sing'st  away  the  early  hours 
Of  winters  past  or  coming — void  of  care, 
Well  pleased  with  delights  which  present  are  ; 

Fair  seasons,  budding  sprays,  sweet-smelling  flowers ; 

To  rocks,  to  springs,  to  rills,  from  leafy  bowers, 
Thou  thy  Creator's  goodness  dost  declare, 
And  what  dear  gifts  on  thee  he  did  not  spare  ; 

A  stain  to  human  sense  in  sin  that  lowers. 

What  soul  can  be  so  sick,  which  by  thy  songs, 
Attir'd  in  sweetness,  sweetly  is  not  driven 

Quite  to  forget  earth's  turmoils,  spites,  and  wrongs, 
And  lift  a  reverent  eye  and  thought  to  heaven  ? 

WILLIAM  DEUMMOND,  1585-1649. 


THE    LARK. 

Hark !  hark  !  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phoebus  'gins  arise — 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs, 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies ; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 

To  ope  their  golden  eyes ; 
With  every  thing  that  pretty  bin — 

My  lady  sweet,  arise ! 

W.  SHAKSPEABK. 


FROM    THIS    "  COMPLETE   ANQLKR." 

At  first  the  lark,  when  she  means  to  rejoice,  to  cheer  herself  and 
those  that  hear  her,  she  then  quits  the  earth,  and  sings  as  she  ascends 
higher  into  the  air  ;  and  having  ended  her  heavenly  employment,  grows 


104  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

then  mute  and  sad,  to  think  she  must  descend  to  the  dull  earth,  which 
she  would  not  touch  but  for  necessity, 

How  do  the  blackbird  and  throssel,  with  their  melodious  voices,  bid 
welcome  to  the  cheerful  spring,  and  in  their  fixed  mouths  warble  forth 
such  ditties  as  no  art  or  instrument  can  reach  to ! 

Nay,  the  smaller  birds  also  do  the  like  in  their  particular  seasons,  as, 
namely,  the  laverock,  the  titlark,  the  little  linnet,  and  the  honest  robin, 
that  loves  mankind,  both  alive  and  dead. 

But  the  nightingale —another  of  my  airy  creatures — breathes  such 
sweet,  loud  music  out  of  her  little  instrumental  throat,  that  it  might 
make  mankind  to  think  miracles  are  not  ceased.  He  that  at  midnight, 
when  the  very  laborer  sleeps  securely,  should  hear — as  I  have  very 
often — the  clear  airs,  the  sweet  descants,  the  natural  rising  and  falling, 
the  doubling  and  redoubling  of  her  voice,  might  well  be  lifted  above 
earth,  and  say,  "  Lord,  what  music  hast  thou  provided  for  the  saints  in 
heaven,  when  thou  afforded  bad  men  such  music  on  earth  ?" 

IZAAK  WALTON.  1593-1683. 


TO    THE     SKYLARK. 

Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wer't, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher, 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  setting  sun, 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

The  pale,  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven, 

In  the  broad  daylight, 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  105 

Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud, 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow-clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see, 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden, 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower  : 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden, 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the  view  : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- wing'd  thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 


106  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass, 

Teach  no  sprite  or  bird 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  : 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

Chorus  hymeneal, 

Or  triumphant  chant, 
Matched  with  thine  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 

With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  can  not  be  : 
Shades  of  annoyance 

Never  come  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest,  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking,  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream ; 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear  ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 
Of  delightful  sound ; 


LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE.  107 

Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


A    LARK    SINGING    IN    A    RAINBOW. 

Fraught  with  a  transient,  frozen  shower 
If  a  cloud  should  haply  lower, 
Sailing  o'er  the  landscape  dark, 
Mute,  on  a  sudden,  is  the  lark ; 
But  when  gleams  the  sun  again 
O'er  the  pearl-besprinkled  plain, 
And  from  behind  his  watery  vail 
Looks  through  the  thin  descending  hail ; 
She  mounts,  and,  lessening  to  the  sight, 
Salutes  the  blithe  return  of  light, 
And  high  her  tuneful  track  pursues 
Through  the  rainbow's  melting  hues. 

THOMAS  WABTON,  1728-1790. 


THE    SKYLARK. 

FROM  "THK  FABMER'B  BOY." 

When  music  waking,  speaks  the  skylark  nigh, 
Just  starting  from  the  corn,  he  cheerly  sings, 
And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  his  downy  wings 
Still  louder  breathes,  and  in  the  face  of  day 
Mounts  up,  and  calls  on  Giles  to  mark  his  way. 
Close  to  his  eyes  his  hat  he  instant  bends, 
And  forms  a  friendly  telescope,  that  lends 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  light, 
And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight, 
That  oft  beneath  a  light  cloud  sweeps  along, 
Lost  for  a  while,  yet  pours  the  varied  song. 
The  eye  still  follows,  and  the  cloud  move's  by ; 
Again  he  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky. 


108  LARK      AND      NIGHTINGALE. 

His  form,  his  motion,  undistinguish'd  quite, 
Save  when  he  wheels  direct  from  shade  to  light ; 
E'en  then  the  songster  a  mere  speck  become, 
Gliding  like  fancy's  bubbles  in  a  dream, 
The  gazer  sees     *     *     *     * 

EGBERT  BLOOMFIBLD,  1T66-1S23. 


THE    MOOES    OF    JUTLAND. 

FROM   THE   DANISH. 

I  lay  on  my  heathery  hills  all  alone, 

The  storm- winds  rush'd  o'er  me  in  turbulence  loud ; 
My  head  rested  lone  on  the  gray  moorland  stone, 

My  eyes  wandered  starward  from  cloud  unto  cloud. 

There  wandered  my  eyes,  but  my  thoughts  onward  passed, 
Far,  far  beyond  cloud-track  or  tempests'  career ; 

At  times  I  hummed  songs,  and  the  desolate  waste 
Was  the  first  the  sad  chimes  of  my  spirit  to  hear. 

Gloomy  and  gray  are  the  moorlands,  where  rest 
My  fathers,  yet  there  doth  the  wild  heather  bloom  ; 

And  amid  the  old  cairns  the  lark  buildeth  her  nest,  . 

And  sings  in  the  desert,  o'er  hill-top,  and  tomb  ! 
Translation  of  MRS.  HOWITT.  BLICKEE. 


THE    RISING    OF    THE    LAEK. 

For  so  have  I  seen  a  lark  rising  from  his  bed  of  grass,  and,  soaring 
upward,  sing  as  he  rises,  and  hopes  to  get  to  heaven,  and  climb  above 
the  clouds ;  but  the  poor  bird  was  beaten  back  with  the  loud  sighings  of 
an  eastern  wind,  and  his  motion  made  irregular  and  inconstant,  de- 
scending more  and  more  at  every  breath  of  the  tempest  than  it  could 
recover  by  the  libration  and  frequent  weighing  of  his  wings ;  till  the 
little  creature  was  forced  to  sit  down  and  pant,  and  stay  till  the  storm 
was  over,  and  then  it  made  a  prosperous  flight,  and  did  rise  and  sing,  as 
if  it  had  learned  music  and  motion  from  an  angel,  as  he  passed  some- 
times through  the  air  about  his  ministries  here  below  :  so  is  the  prayer 
of  a  good  man. 

JEBBMY  TAYLOR,  1C13-166T. 


L  A  R  K      AND       NIGHTINGALE.  109 


THE    LARK. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness, 

Blithesome  and  cumberless, 
Sweet  be  thy  matins  o'er  moorland  and  lea  ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 
O  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee  ! 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud  ; 
Love  gives  it  energy — love  gave  it  birth  : 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing — 

Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven — thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms. 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be ! 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place — 

0  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

JAMES  HOGG- 


LARK. 

To  the  last  point  of  vision,  and  beyond, 

Mount,  daring  warbler!  that  love-prompted  strain 
(Twixt  thee  and  thine  a  never-failing  bond) 

Thrills  not  the  less  the  bosom  of  the  plain  ; 

Yet  might'st  thou  seem,  proud  privilege  !  to  sing 

All  independent  of  the  leafy  spring. 

Leave  to  the  nightingale  her  shady  wood ; 

A  privacy  of  glorious  light  is  thine  ; 
Whence  thou  dost  pour  upon  the  world  a  flood 

Of  harmony,  with  rapture  more  divine  ; 

Type  of  the  wise  who  soar  but  never  roam  ; 

Twin  to  the  kindred  points  of  Heaven  and  home. 

WoRUSW 


110 


LARK       AND       NIGHTINGALE. 


LINES. 

So  when  the  lark,  poor  bird  !  afar  espyeth 
Her  yet  unfeathered  children,  whom  to  save 

She  strives  in  vain — slain  by  the  fatal  scythe, 

Which  from  the  meadow  her  green  locks  do  shave, 
That  their  warm  nest  is  now  become  their  grave. 
The  woful  mother  up  to  heaven  springs, 
And  all  about  her  plaintive  notes  she  flings, 
And  their  untimely  fate  most  pitifully  sings. 

GILES  FLETCIIKK,  158S-1623. 


VI. 


WHAT,  alas  !  will  become  of  those  luckless  wights — the 
future  poets  of  Caffreland  and  New  Zealand,  of  Patago- 
nia and  Pitcairn's  Island — when  they  suddenly  awake  to  the 
miserable  reality  that  there  is  no  May  in  their  year.  May  ! 
The  very  word  in  itself  is  charming ;  pleasing  to  the  eye, 
falling  sweetly  on  the  ear,  gliding  naturally  into  music  and 
song,  dowered  with  innumerable  images  of  beauty  and  de- 
light, imaginary  bliss,  and  natural  joy.  What,  we  ask  again, 
will  be  the  melancholy  consequences  to  the  southern  hem- 
isphere when  they  become  fully  conscious  that  they  have  lost 
the  "  merry  month,"  the  "  soote  season,"  from  their  calendar 
— that  with  them  January  must  forever  linger  in  the  lap  of 
May.  Conceive  of  Hottentot  elegies  and  Fejee  sonnets  en- 
larging upon  the  balmy  airs  and  soft  skies  of  November  ; 
raving  about  the  tender  young  blossoms  of  December,  and  the 
delicate  fruits  of  January.  Will  the  world  ever  become  really 


112  MAY. 

accustomed  to  such  a  change  of  key  ?  We  doubt  it.  After 
all,  there  is  something  in  primogeniture  ;  it  naturally  gives  all 
the  honors  of  precedence.  Those  writers  who  first  caught  the 
ear  of  the  listening  earth  will  always  have  the  best  of  it ;  their 
successors  must  fain  be  content  to  yield  a  certain  homage  to 
long-established  privileges.  It  will  be  a  great  while  yet — at 
least  a  thousand  years  or  so — before  the  Dryden  of  Port  Sid- 
ney or  the  Camoens  of  Paraguay  shall  venture  to  say  hard 
things  of  May ! 


MAY    MORNING. 


Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  east,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flow'ry  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip  and  the  pale  primrose. 

Hail  bounteous  May,  that  dost  inspire 

Mirth,  and  youth,  and  warm  desire ; 

Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing  ; 

Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long  ! 

JOHN  MILTON 


EMILIA    ON    MAY    DAY. 


Thus  year  by  year  they  pass,  and  day  by  day, 

Till  once,  'twas  on  the  morn  of  cheerful  May, 

The  young  Emilia,  fairer  to  be  seen 

Than  the  fair  lily  on  the  flowery  green — 

More  fresh  than  May  herself  in  blossoms  new — 

For  with  the  rosy  color  strove  her  hue — ' 

Waked,  as  her  custom  was,  before  the  day, 

To  do  th'  observance  due  to  sprightly  May  : 

For  sprightly  May  commands  our  youth  to  keep 

The  vigils  of  her  nights,  and  breaks  their  sluggard  sleep. 

Each  gentle  breath  with  kindly  warmth  she  moves  ; 

Inspires  new  flames,  revives  extinguished  loves. 

In  this  remembrance,  Emily,  ere  day, 

Arose,  and  dress'd  herself  in  rich  array  ; 


MAY.  113 

Fresh  ae  the  month,  and  as  the  morning  fair, 
Adown  her  shoulders  fell  her  length  of  hair ; 
A  ribbon  did  the  braided  tresses  bind, 
The  rest  was  loose,  and  wanton'd  in  the  wind, 
Aurora  had  but  newly  chas'd  the  night, 
And  purpled  o'er  the  sky  with  blushing  light, 
When  to  the  garden  walk  she  took  her  way 
To  sport  and  trip  along  in  cool  of  day, 
And  offer  maiden  vows  in  honor  of  the  May. 

At  every  turn  she  made  a  little  stand, 
And  thrust  among  the  thorns  her  lily  hand, 
To  draw  the  rose  ;  and  every  rose  she  drew, 
She  shook  the  stalk,  and  brush'd  away  the  dew ; 
Then  parti-colored  flowers  of  white  and  red 
She  wove,  to  make  a  garland  for  her  head : 
This  done,  she  sung  and  carrol'd  out  so  clear, 
That  men  and  angels  might  rejoice  to  hear  : 
Our  wandering  Philomel  forgot  to  sing, 
And  learned  from  her  to  welcome  in  the  spring. 

JOHN  DBYDET. 


SALUTATION    OF    MAIA. 

FBOM  THK  "MASQUE  OF  THE  PENATES." 

If  every  pleasure  were  distilled 
Of  every  flower  in  every  field, 
And  all  that  Hybla's  hives  do  yield, 
Were  into  one  broad  mazer  filled  ; 
If  thereto  added  all  the  gums 
And  spice  that  from  Panchai's  comes, 
The  odor  that  Hydaspes  lends, 
Or  Phoenix  proves  before  she  ends ; 
If  all  the  air  my  Flora  drew, 
Or  spirit  that  Zephyr  ever  blew, 
Were  put  therein  ;  and  all  the  dew 
That  every  rosy  morning  knew ; 
Yet  all  diffused  upon  this  bower, 
To  make  one  sweet  detaining  hour, 
Were  much  too  little  for  the  grace 
And  honor  you  vouchsafe  the  place ; 
But  if  you  please  to  come  again, 
We  vow  we  will  not  then  with  vain 
And  empty  pastimes  entertain 
Your  so  desired,  though  grieved,  pain  ; 


114  MAY 


For  we  will  have  the  wanton  fawns, 

That  frisking  skip  about  the  lawns, 

The  Panisks  and  the  Sylvans  rude, 

Satyrs,  and  all  that  multitude, 

To  dance  their  wilder  rounds  about, 

To  cleave  the  air  with  many  a  shout, 

As  they  would  hunt  poor  Echo  out 

Of  yonder  valley,  who  doth  flout, 

Their  rustic  noises,  to  visit  whom, 

You  shall  behold  whole  bevies  come 

Of  gaudy  nymphs,  whose  tender  calls 

Well  tuned  unto  the  many  falls 

Of  sweet  and  several  sliding  rills, 

That  stream  from  tops  of  those  less  hills, 

Like  so  many  silver  quills, 

When  Zephyr  them  with  music  fills. 

For  them  Favonius  here  shall  blow 

New  flowers,  that  you  shall  see  to  grow— 

Of  which  each  hand  a  part  shall  take, 

And  for  your  heads  fresh  garlands  make, 

Wherewith,  while  they  your  temples  round, 

An  air  of  several  birds  shall  sound 

An  lo  Paeon,  that  shall  drown 

The  acclamation  at  your  crown. 

All  this,  and  more  than  I  have  give  gift  of  saying, 

May  vows,  so  you  will  oft  come  here  a  Maying. 

BEN  JONSON,  15T4-163T. 


SONG 

KKOM   THE    GERMAN    OF   THE    MINNESINGERS. 

Up,  up !  let  us  greet 
The  season  so  sweet, 

For  winter  is  gone, 
And  the  flowers  are  springing, 
And  little  birds  singing, 
Their  soft  notes  ringing, 

And  bright  is  the  sun ! 
Where  all  was  dressed 
In  a  snowy  vest ; 
There  grass  is  growing, 
With  dew-drops  glowing, 

And  flowers  are  seen 

On  beds  of  green. 


MAY.  115 

All  down  in  the  grove, 
Around,  above, 

Sweet  music  floats ; 
As  now  loudly  vying, 
Now  softly  sighing, 
The  nightingale's  plying 

Her  tuneful  notes ; 
And  joyous  at  spring, 
Her  companions  sing, 
Up,  maidens,  repair 
To  the  meadows  so  fair, 

And  dance  we  away, 

This  merry  May. 
Translation  ofE.  TAYLOB.  GOTTFRIED  VON  NEFEN,  about  1200. 


MAY. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN   MINNESINGERS. 

May,  sweet  May,  again  is  come — 

May,  that  frees  the  land  from  gloom ; 

Children,  children,  up  and  see 

All  her  stores  of  jollity ! 

On  the  laughing  hedgerow's  side 

She  hath  spread  her  treasures  wide ; 

She  is  in  the  greenwood  shade, 

Where  the  nightingale  hath  made 

Every  branch  and  every  tree 

Ring  with  her  sweet  melody ; 

Hill  and  dale  are  May's  own  treasures. 

Youths,  rejoice !     In  sportive  measures 

Sing  ye  !  join  the  chorus  gay ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May ! 

Up,  then,  children !  we  will  go 
Where  the  blooming  roses  grow ; 
In  a  joyful  company 
We  the  bursting  flowers  will  see : 
Up ;  your  festal  dress  prepare ! 
Where  gay  hearts  are  meeting — there 
May  hath  pleasures  most  inviting, 
Heart,  and  sight,  and  ear  delighting. 
Listen  to  the  bird's  sweet  song ; 
Hark !  how  soft  it  floats  along ' 


116  MAY. 

Courtly  dames  our  pleasures  share ! 
Never  saw  I  May  so  fair  ; 
Therefore  dancing  will  we  go. 
Youths,  rejoice !  the  flowerets  blow  ! 

Sing  ye  !  join  the  chorus  gay  ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May  ! 

Our  manly  youths,  where  are  they  now  ? 
Bid  them  up  and  with  us  go, 
To  the  sporters  on  the  plain : 
Bid  adieu  to  care  and  pain, 
Now,  thou  pale  and  wounded  lover  ! 
Thou  thy  peace  shalt  soon  recover, 
Many  a  laughing  lip  and  eye 
Speaks  the  light  heart's  gayety  ; 
Lovely  flowers  around  we  find, 
In  the  smiling  verdure  twined ; 
Richly  steeped  in  May -dews  glowing. 
Youths,  rejoice  !  the  flowers  are  blowing ! 

Sing  ye !  join  the  chorus  gay  ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May ! 

0,  if  to  my  love  restored — 
To  her,  o'er  all  her  sex  adored — 
What  supreme  delight  were  mine  ! 
How  would  care  her  sway  resign  ? 
Merrily  in  the  bloom  of  May 
Would  I  weave  a  garland  gay. 
Better  than  the  best  is  she, 
Purer  than  all  purity ; 
For  her  spotless  self  alone, 
I  will  praise  this  changeless  one  : 
Thankful,  or  unthankful,  she 
Shall  my  song,  my  idol  be. 

Youths,  then  join  the  chorus  gay  ! 

Hail  this  merry,  merry  May  ! 
Translation  of  EDGAR  TAYLOR.  CONRAD  V.  KIRCHBERG,  about  1170. 


SONG. 

FROM  "  ANGLING   REMINISCENCES." 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Meet  the  morn  upon  the  lea  ; 
Are  the  emeralds  of  the  spring 

On  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 


MAY.  117 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 
Are  there  buds  on  our  willow-tree  ? 
Buds  and  birds  on  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing ! 

Have  you  met  the  honey  bee, 
Circling  upon  rapid  wing, 

'Round  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  up  and  see ! 

Are  there  bees  at  our  willow- tree  ? 

Birds  and  bees  at  the  trysting-tree 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Are  the  fountains  gushing  free  ? 
Is  the  south  wind  wandering 

Through  the  angler's  trysting-tree  ? 

Up,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Is  there  wind  up  our  willow-tree  ? 

Wind  or  calm  at  our  trysting-tree  ? 

Sing,  sweet  thrushes,  forth  and  sing  ! 

Wile  us  with  a  merry  glee ; 
To  the  flowery  haunts  of  spring — 

To  the  angler's  trysting-tree. 

Tell,  sweet  thrushes,  tell  to  me  ! 

Are  there  flowers  'neath  our  willow- tree  ? 

Spring  and  flowers  at  the  trysting-tree  ? 

STODDAET. 


MAY. 

I  feel  a  newer  life  in  every  gale ; 

The  winds  that  fan  the  flowers, 
And  with  their  welcome  breathings  fill  the  sail, 

Tell  of  serener  hours — 
Of  hours  that  glide  unfelt  away, 
Beneath  the  sky  of  May. 

The  spirit  of  the  gentle  south-wind  calls 

From  his  blue  throne  of  air ; 
And  where  his  whispering  voice  in  music  falls, 

Beauty  is  budding  there. 
The  bright  ones  of  the  valley  break 
Their  slumbers,  and  awake. 


118  MAY. 

The  waving  verdure  rolls  along  the  plain, 

And  the  wide  forest  weaves, 
To  welcome  back  its  playful  mates  again, 

A  canopy  of  leaves ; 
And  from  its  darkening  shadow  floats, 
A  gush  of  trembling  notes. 

Fairer  and  brighter  spreads  the  reign  of  May ; 

The  tresses  of  the  woods, 
With  the  light  dallying  of  the  west-wind  play, 

And  the  full- brimming  floods, 
As  gladly  to  their  goal  they  run, 
Hail  the  returning  sun. 

JAMES  G.  PERCIVAL. 


VII. 


DYER'S  poem  of  "  The  Fleece,"  though  little  read  now-a- 
days,  has  found  warm  admirers  among  the  great  poets  of 
England.  Akenside  once  remarked  that  he  should  regulate  his 
opinion  of  the  public  taste  by  the  reception  of  "  The  Fleece  ;" 
for  if  it  were  not  to  succeed,  "  he  should  think  it  no  longer 
reasonable  to  expect  fame  from  excellence."  And  Mr.  Words- 
worth appears  to  have  been  very  much  of  the  same  opinion  : 

"  Bard  of  '  The  Fleece,'  whose  skillful  genius  made 
That  work  a  living  landscape,  fair  and  bright, 

****** 

Though  party  Fame  hath  many  a  chaplet  culled 

For  worthless  brows,  while  in  the  pensive  shade 

Of  cold  neglect  she  leaves  thy  head  ungraced, 

Yet  pure  and  powerful  minds,  hearts  meek  and  still, 

A  grateful  few  shall  love  thy  modest  lay, 

Long  as  the  shepherd's  bleating  flock  shall  stray 

O'er  naked  Snowdon's  wide  aerial  waste  — 

Long  as  the  thrush  shall  pipe  on  Grongar  Hill." 


120  THE      FLOCK. 

Dyer  is  one  of  those  writers  whose  higher  efforts  have 
been  little  heeded,  while  his  lesser  works  have  been  much 
liked.     "  Grongar  Hill"  and  "  The  Country  Walk"  have  been 
always  read  with  pleasure,  while  the  "Ruins  of  Rome"  and 
"  The  Fleece"  lie  on  the  shelf  unopened.     The  saucy  critic, 
who    on    hearing,   shortly    after    the    publication   of   "  The 
"  Fleece,"  that  Dyer  was  growing  old,  exclaimed,  "  He  will 
be  buried  in  woolen !"  has  proved  at  least  a  true  seer.     The 
world  never  forgives  a  man  of  approved  talent,  who,  having 
once  fixed  its  attention  agreeably,  fails  in  some  higher  and 
later  aim.     The  game  of  authorship  is,  in  this  sense,  like 
many  other  games,  where,  if  the  last  throw  is  a  blank,  you 
lose  all  that  has  been  previously  won  from  the  pool  of  fame 
and  fortune.     The  public  has  very  little  patience.     But,  on 
the  other  hand,  we  can  not  always  adhere  implicitly  to  the 
opinion  of  some  wiser  judge,  though  he   be  of  the  higher 
court,  who  may  desire  to  revoke  the  earlier  general  decision. 
The  literary  man  usually  makes  up  his  mind  regarding  a  book 
upon  very  different  grounds  from  the  general  reader ;  the  pub- 
lic decides  rapidly,  from  first  impressions,  from  general  views  ; 
it  has  neither  time  nor  ability  to  waste  on  analysis ;  the  critic 
delights  in  looking  very  closely  at  his  subject,  and  his  enjoy- 
ment of  perfection  of  detail  is  often  too  great.     The  public 
is,  no  doubt,  the  best  judge  of  the  interest  of  a  work,  since 
it  considers  little  else.     The  man  of  letters  holds  the  best 
guage  of  talent ;   he  appreciates  more  justly  excellency  of 
workmanship  and   accuracy  of  finish.      But  a  really  great 
book  is  not  written  for  one  class  only — it  should  satisfy  the 
best  of  all  classes  ;  it  must  have  more  than  one  kind  of  merit 
— it  must  possess  interest  for  the  careless  reader,  skill  and 
good  workmanship  for  the   critic,  power  and  inspiration  to 
strike  the  spark  from  kindred  genius.     There  is  quite  a  large 
class  of  poetical  works  especially,  which,  while  they  meet 
with  more  or  less  approbation  from  the  critic,  fail  to  please 
generally  ;    they  lack   interest ;    the   writer  has   had   talent 
enough  to  introduce  much  that  is  good,  or,  perhaps,  even  ad- 
mirable passages,  at  intervals  ;  but  he  has  not  been  endowed 


THE      FLOCK.  121 

with  the  genius  which  grasps,  and  controls,  and  shapes,  and 
vivifies  every  subject  which  it  handles.  Among  this  class 
may  be  placed  "  The  Fleece."  The  writer,  John  Dyer,  was 
a  Welshman  of  respectable  parentage,  born  in  1700,  who  first 
studied  law,  then  became  a  painter,  and  finally  took  orders  in 
the  Church  of  England.  The  extract  we  have  given  from 
"  The  Fleece"  scarcely  does  justice  to  the  merits  of  the 
poem,  but  we  have  selected  it  from  its  predictions  regarding 
our  own  country  ;  not  only  do  Virginia  arid  Massachusetts 
appear  on  the  scene,  but  even  California  figures  in  these 
verses,  written  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago. 


ON    A    RURAL    IMAGE    OF    PAN. 


Sleep,  ye  rude  winds  !     Be  every  murmur  dead 

On  yonder  oak-crowned  promontory's  head  ! 

Be  still,  ye  bleating  flocks — your  shepherd  calls. 

Hang  silent  on  your  rocks,  ye  waterfalls  ! 

Pan  on  his  oaten  pipe  awakes  the  strains, 

And  fills  with  dulcet  sounds  the  pastoral  plains. 

Lured  by  his  notes,  the  nymphs  their  bowers  forsake, 

From  every  fountain,  running  stream,  and  lake, 

From  every  hill  and  ancient  grove  around, 

And  to  symphonious  measures  strike  the  ground. 

Translation  ofj.  H.  MERIVALE. 


PASTORAL    SCENE    FROM    «THE    ARCADIA." 

There  were  hills  which  garnished  their  proud  heights  with  stately 
trees ;  humble  valleys  whose  base  estate  seemed  comforted  with  the  re- 
freshing of  silver  rivers ;  meadows  enameled  with  all  sorts  of  eye-pleas- 
ing flowers ;  thickets  which,  being  lined  with  most  pleasant  shade,  were 
witnessed  so  by  the  cheerful  disposition  of  many  well-tuned  birds ;  each 
pasture  stored  with  sheep  feeding  with  sober  secm-ity,  while  the  pretty 
lambs,  with  bleating  oratory,  craved  the  dam's  comfort ;  here  a  shep- 
herd's boy  piping,  as  though  he  should  never  be  old ;  there  a  young 
shepherdess  knitting,  and  withal  singing,  and  it  seemed  that  her  voice 
comforted  her  hands  to  work,  and  her  hands  kept  time  to  her  voice- 
music. 

SIR  PHILIP  SIDNEY.  1554-1586. 


122  THEFLOCK. 


FROM    THE    "FAITHFUL     SHEPHERDESS." 

Shepherds  all,  and  maidens  fair, 

Fold  your  flocks  up,  for  the  air 

'Gins  to  thicken,  and  the  sun 

Already  his  great  course  hath  run. 

See  the  dew-drops,  how  they  kiss 

Every  little  flower  that  is 

Hanging  on  their  velvet  heads, 

Like  a  rope  of  crystal  beads  ; 

See  the  heavy  clouds  low-falling, 

And  bright  Hesperus  down  calling 

The  dead  night  from  underground ; 

At  whose  rising,  mists  unsound, 

Damps  and  vapors  fly  apace, 

Hovering  o'er  the  wanton  face 

Of  those  pastures  where  they  come, 

Striking  dead  both  bud  and  bloom. 

Therefore,  from  such  danger  lock 

Every  one  his  loved  flock  ; 

And  let  your  dogs  lie  loose  without, 

Lest  the  wolf  come  as  a  scout 

From  the  mountain,  and,  ere  day, 

Bear  a  lamb  or  kid  away  ; 

Or  the  crafty,  thievish  foe 

Break  upon  your  simple  flocks. 

To  secure  yourself  from  these, 

Be  not  too  secure  in  ease  ; 

Let  one  eye  his  watches  keep, 

While  the  other  eye  doth  sleep ; 

So  you  shall  good  shepherds  prove, 

And  for  ever  hold  the  love 

Of  our  great  God.     Sweetest  slumbers, 

And  soft  silence,  fall  in  numbers 

On  your  eyelids  !  so  farewell ! 

Thus  I  end  my  evening  knell ! 

JOHN  FLETCHER,  1576-1625. 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE. 

Thrice,  oh  thrice  happy,  shepherd's  life  and  state, 

When  courts  are  happiness'  unhappy  pawns  ! 

His  cottage  low,  and  safely  humble  gate 

Shuts  out  proud  Fortune,  with  her  scorns  and  fawns  ; 


THE      FLOCK.  123 

No  feared  treason  breaks  his  quiet  sleep  : 
Singing  all  day,  his  flocks  he  learns  to  keep ; 
Himself  as  innocent  as  are  his  simple  sheep. 

No  Serian  worms  he  knows,  that  with  their  thread 
Draw  out  their  silken  lives  ;  nor  silken  pride  : 
His  lambs'  warm  fleece  well  fits  his  little  need, 
Not  in  that  proud  Sidonian  tincture  dyed  : 

No  empty  hopes,  no  courtly  fears  him  fright ; 

Nor  begging  wants  his  middle  fortune  bite  : 
But  sweet  content  exiles  both  misery  and  spite. 

Instead  of  music  and  base  flattering  tongues, 
Which  wait  to  first  salute  my  Lord's  uprise ; 
The  cheerful  lark  wakes  him  with  early  songs, 
And  birds'  sweet  whistling  notes  unlock  his  eyes : 

In  country  plays  is  all  the  strife  he  uses, 

Or  sing,  or  dance  unto  the  rural  Muses ; 
And,  but  in  music's  sports,  all  difference  refuses. 

His  certain  life,  that  never  can  deceive  him, 
Is  full  of  thousand  sweets  and  rich  content : 
The  smooth-leaved  beeches  in  the  field  receive  him 
With  coolest  shades,  till  noon-tide's  rage  is  spent : 
His  life  is  neither  tost  in  boist'rous  seas 
Of  troublous  world,  nor  lost  in  slothful  ease ; 
Pleas'd  and  full  bless'd  he  lives,  when  he  his  God  can  please. 

His  bed  of  wool  yields  safe  and  quiet  sleeps, 
While  by  his  side  his  faithful  spouse  hath  place  : 
His  little  son  into  his  bosom  creeps, 
The  lively  picture  of  his  father's  face  : 

Never  his  humble  house  or  state  torment  him ; 

Less  he  could  like,  if  less  his  God  had  sent  him ; 
And  when  he  dies,  green  turfs  with  grassy  tomb  content  him. 

PIIIKEAB  FLETCHER,  15S4-1650. 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    ADDRESS    TO    HIS    MUSE. 

Good  Muse,  rocke  me  aslepe 

With  some  swete  harmony  : 
This  wearie  eyes  is  not  to  kepe 

Thy  wary  company. 


124  THE      FLOCK. 

Sweete  Love,  begone  a  while, 

Thou  seest  my  heavinesse  ; 
Beautie  is  borne  but  to  beguyle 

My  harte  of  happinesse. 

See  how  my  little  flocke, 
That  lovde  to  feede  on  highe, 

Doe  headlonge  tumble  downe  the  rocke. 
And  in  the  valley  dye. 

The  bushes  and  the  trees, 
That  were  so  freshe  and  greene, 

Doe  all  their  daintie  colors  leese, 
And  not  a  leafe  is  seene. 

The  blacke  bird  and  the  thrushe, 
That  made  the  woodes  to  ringe, 

With  all  the  rest,  are  now  at  hushe, 
And  not  a  note  they  singe. 

Swete  Philomele,  the  birde 

That  hath  the  heavenly  throte, 

Doth  nowe,  alas  !  not  once  afforde 
Recordinge  of  a  note. 

The  flowers  have  had  a  frost, 

The  herbes  have  lost  their  savoure ; 

And  Phillada  the  faire  hath  lost 
For  me  her  wonted  favour. 

Thus  all  these  careful  sights 

So  kill  me  in  conceit, 
That  now  to  hope  upon  delights 

It  is  but  mere  deceite. 

And  therefore  my  sweete  muse, 
That  knoweth  what  helpe  is  best, 

Doe  nowe  thy  heavenlie  cunning  use 
To  sett  my  harte  at  rest. 

And  in  a  dream  bewraie 
What  fate  shall  be  my  friende ; 

Whether  my  life  shall  still  decaye, 
Or  when  my  sorrowes  ende. 

NICHOLAS  BRETON,  about  1570. 


THE      FLOCK.  125 


PHILLIDA    AND    CORYDON.* 

In  the  merrie  moneth  of  Maye, 
In  a  morne  by  break  of  daye, 
With  a  troope  of  damsells  playing, 
Forth  I  yode  forsooth  a  maying  ; 

Where  anon  by  a  wood  side, 
Where  as  May  was  in  his  pride, 
I  espied  all  alone 
Phillida  and  Corydon. 

Much  adoe  there  was,  God  wot ; 
He  wold  love,  and  she  wold  not. 
She  sayde  never  man  was  trewe  ; 
He  sayes  none  was  false  to  you. 

He  sayde  hee  had  lovde  her  longe  : 
She  sayes  love  should  have  no  wronge. 
Corydon  wold  kisse  her  then  : 


Tyll  they  doe  for  good  and  all. 
When  she  made  the  shepperde  call 
All  the  heavens  to  wytnes  truthe, 
Never  lov'd  a  truer  youthe. 

Then  with  many  a  prettie  othe, 
Yea,  and  naye,  and  faithe  and  trothe  ; 
Such  as  seelie  shepperdes  use 
When  they  will  not  love  abuse  ; 

*  "The  Honorable  Entertainement  given  to  the  Queenes  Majestic  (Queen  Eliza- 
beth) in  Progreese  at  Elvetham,  in  Hampshire,  by  the  K.  II.  the  Earle  of  Hertford, 
1501: 

"  The  thirde  daies  Entertainement. 

"  On  Wednesday  morning,  about  9  o'clock,  as  her  Majestie  opened  a  casement  of 
her  gollerie  window,  ther  were  three  excellent  musitians,  who,  being  disguised  in 
auncient  country  attire,  did  greete  her  with  a  pleasant  song  of  Corydon  and  ThUlida, 
made  in  three  parts,  of  purpose.  The  song,  as  well  for  the  worth  of  the  dittie,  as  the 
aptnesse  of  the  note  thereto  applied,  it  pleased  her  Highnesse  after  it  had  been  once 
sung,  to  command  it  againe,  and  highly  to  grace  it  with  her  cheerefull  acceptaunoe  and 
commendation." 


126  THE      FLOCK. 


Love  that  had  bene  long  deluded 
Was  with  kisses  swete  concluded  ; 
And  Phillida  with  garlands  gaye 
Was  made  the  ladye  of  the  Maye. 

N.  BRETON. 


SHEARING    TIME. 


FROM    "  THK    FLEECK.' 


If  verdant  elder  spreads 
Her  silver  flowers ;  if  humble  daisies  yield 
To  yellow  crowfoot  and  luxuriant  grass, 
Gay  shearing-tirne  approaches.     First,  howe'er, 
Drive  to  the  double  fold,  upon  the  brim 
Of  a  clear  river;  gently  drive  the  flock, 
And  plunge  them  one  by  one  into  the  flood. 
Plunged  in  the  flood,  not  long  the  struggler  sinks, 
With  his  white  flakes,  that  glisten  through  the  tide ; 
The  sturdy  rustic,  in  the  middle  wave 
Awaits  to  seize  him  rising ;  one  arm  bears 
His  lifted  head  above  the  limpid  stream, 
While  the  full,  clammy  fleece  the  other  laves 
Around,  laborious  with  repeated  toil, 
And  then  resigns  him  to  the  sunny  bank, 
Where,  bleating  loud,  he  shakes  his  dripping  locks. 

Now  to  the  other  hemisphere,  my  muse ! 
A  new  world  found,  extend  thy  daring  wing. 
Be  thou  the  first  of  the  harmonious  nine 
From  high  Parnassus,  the  unwearied  toils 
Of  industry  and  valor,  in  that  world 
Triumphant,  to  reward  with  tuneful  song. 

Happy  the  voyage  o'er  the  Atlantic  brine, 
By  active  Raleigh  made,  and  great  the  joy 
When  he  discern'd,  above  the  foaming  surge, 
A  rising  coast,  for  future  colonies, 
Opening  her  bays,  and  figuring  her  capes, 
E'en  from  the  northern  tropic  to  the  pole. 
No  land  gives  more  employment  for  the  loom, 
Or  kindlier  feeds  the  indigent ;  no  land 
With  more  variety  of  wealth  rewards 
The  hand  of  labor  :  thither,  from  the  wrongs 
Of  lawless  rule,  the  free-born  spirit  flies  ; 


THE      FLOCK.  127 

Thither  affliction,  thither  poverty, 

And  arts  and  sciences ;  thrice  happy  clime, 

Which  Britain  makes  th'  asylum  of  mankind. 

But  joy  superior  far  his  bosom  warms, 
Who  views  those  shores  in  every  culture  dressed ; 
With  habitations  gay,  and  numerous  towns 
On  hill  and  valley ;  and  his  countrymen 
Formed  into  various  states,  powerful  and  rich, 
In  regions  far  remote ;  who  from  our  looms 
Take  largely  for  themselves,  and  for  those  tribes 
Of  Indians,  ancient  tenants  of  the  land, 
In  amity  conjoin'd,  of  civil  life 
The  comforts  taught,  and  various  new  desires 
Which  kindle  arts,  and  occupy  the  poor, 
And  spread  Britannia's  flocks  o'er  every  dale. 

Ye,  who  the  shuttle  cast  along  the  loom, 
The  silkworm's  thread  inweaving  with  the  fleece, 
Pray  for  the  culture  of  the  Georgian  track, 
Nor  slight  the  green  savannas  and  the  plains 
Of  Carolina,  where  thick  woods  arise 
Of  mulberries,  and  in  whose  watered  fields 
Upsprings  the  verdant  blade  of  thirsty  rice. 
Where  are  the  happy  regions  which  afford 
More  implements  of  commerce  and  of  wealth  ? 

Fertile  Virginia,  like  a  vigorous  bough, 
Which  overshades  some  crystal  river,  spreads 
Her  wealthy  cultivations  wide  around, 
And,  more  than  many  a  spacious  realm,  rewards 
The  fleecy  shuttle  :  to  her  growing  marts 
The  Iroquese,  Cheroquese,  and  Oubaches  come, 
And  quit  their  feathery  ornaments  uncouth 
For  woolly  garments ;  and  the  cheers  of  life — 
The  cheers,  but  not  the  vices,  learn  to  taste. 
Blush,  Europeans  !  whom  the  circling  cup 
Of  luxury  intoxicates ;  ye  routs, 
Who,  for  your  crimes,  have  fled  your  native  land ; 
And  ye  voluptuous  idle,  who  in  vain 
Seek  easy  habitations,  void  of  care  : 
The  sons  of  Nature  with  astonishment 
And  detestation  mark  your  evil  deeds, 
And  view,  no  longer  aw'd,  your  nerveless  arms, 
Unfit  to  cultivate  Ohio's  banks. 

See  the  bold  emigrants  of  Acadie 
And  Massachuset,  happy  in  those  arts 
That  join  the  politics  of  trade  and  war, 


128  THE      FLOCK. 

Bearing  the  palm  in  either ;  they  appear 

Better  exemplars ;  and  that  hardy  crew 

Who,  on  the  frozen  beach  of  Newfoundland, 

Hang  their  white  fish  amid  the  parching  winds ; 

The  kindly  fleece,  in  webs  of  Duffield  woof, 

Their  limbs,  benumb'd,  infold  with  cheerly  warmth ; 

And  frieze  of  Cambria,  worn  by  those  who  seek 

Through  gulfs  and  dales  of  Hudson's  winding  bay 

The  beaver's  fur,  though  oft  they  seek  in  vain ; 

While  Winter's  frosty  rigor  checks  approach 

E'en  in  the  fiftieth  latitude.     Say  why 

(If  ye,  the  travel'd  sons  of  commerce,  know), 

Wherefore  lie  bound  their  rivers,  lakes,  and  dales 

Half  the  sun's  annual  course  in  chains  of  ice, 

While  the  Rhine's  fertile  shore,  and  Gallic  realms, 

By  the  same  zone  encircled,  long  enjoy 

Warm  beams  of  Phoebus,  and,  supine,  behold 

Their  plains  and  hillocks  blush  with  clustering  vine?  : 

Must  it  be  ever  thus  ?  or  may  the  hand 
Of  mighty  labor  drain  their  gusty  lakes, 
Enlarge  the  brightening  sky,  and,  peopling,  warm 
The  opening  valleys  and  the  yellowing  plains  ? 
Or,  rather,  shall  we  burst  strong  Darien's  chain, 
Steer  our  bold  fleets  between  the  cloven  rocks, 
And  through  the  great  Pacific  every  joy 
Of  civil  life  diffuse  ?     Are  not  her  isles 
Numerous  and  large  ?     Have  they  not  harbors  calm, 
Inhabitants,  and  manners  ?     Haply,  too, 
Peculiar  sciences,  and  other  forms 
Of  trade,  and  useful  products,  to  exchange 
For  woolly  vestures  ?  *  *  * 

******* 

A  day  will  come,  if  not  too  deep  we  drink 

The  cup  which  luxury,  on  careless  wealth, 

Pernicious  gift !  bestows.     A  day  will  come, 

When,  through  new  channels  sailing,  we  shall  clothe 

The  Californian  coast,  and  all  the  realms 

That  stretch  from  Anian's  straits  to  proud  Japan. 

DYER'S  Fleece,  17(0-1758. 

A    FAYRE    AND    HAPPY    MILK-MAID. 

Is  a  countrey  wench,  that  is  so  farre  from  making  her  selfe  beautifull 
by  art,  that  one  looke  of  hers  is  able  to  put  all  face  physicke  out  of 
countenance.  She  knowes  a  faire  looke  is  but  a  duiribe  orator  to  com- 


THE      FLOCK.  129 

mend  virtue,  therefore  minds  it  not.  All  her  excellencies  stand  in  her 
so  silently,  as  if  they  had  stolne  upon  her  without  her  knowledge.  The 
lining  of  her  apparall  (which  is  her  selfe)  is  farre  better  than  outsides 
of  tisseu  ;  for  though  she  be  not  arraied  in  the  spoile  of  the  silke-worme, 
shee  is  deckt  in  innocency,  a  farre  better  wearing.  She  doth  not,  with 
lying  long  abed,  spoile  both  her  complexion  and  conditions.  Nature 
hath  taught  her  too  immoderate  sleepe  is  rust  to  the  soule;  she  rises, 
therefore,  with  chaunticleare,  her  dame's  cock,  and  at  night  makes  the 
lambe  her  curfew.  In  milking  a  cow,  a-straining  the  teats  through  her 
fingers,  it  seems  that  so  sweete  a  milk-presse  makes  the  milk  the  whiter 
or  sweeter ;  for  never  came  almond  glove,  or  aromatique  oyntment  on 
her  palme  to  taint  it.  The  golden  eares  of  corne  fall  and  kisse  her  feet 
when  she  reapes  them,  as  if  they  wisht  to  be  bound,  and  led  prisoners 
by  the  same  hand  that  fell'd  them.  Her  breath  is  her  own,  which  scents 
all  the  yeare  long  of  June,  like  a  new-made  hay-cocke.  She  makes  her 
hand  hard  with  labour,  and  her  heart  soft  with  pity  ;  and  when  winter 
evenings  fall  early  (sitting  at  her  mery  wheele)  she  sings  a  defiance  to 
the  giddy  wheele  of  fortune.  She  doth  all  things  with  so  sweet  a  grace, 
it  seems  ignorance  will  not  suffer  her  to  do  ill,  being  her  mind  is  to  doe 
well.  She  bestowes  her  yeare's  wages  at  next  faire ;  and  in  chusing  her 
garments,  counts  no  bravery  i'  the  world  like  decency.  The  garden 
and  bee-hive  are  all  her  physick  and  chyrurgerye,  and  shee  lives  the 
longer  for't.  She  dares  goe  alone,  and  unfold  sheepe  i'  the  night,  and 
feares  no  manner  of  ill,  because  she  meanes  none;  yet  to  say  truth,  she 
is  never  alone,  for  she  is  still  accompanied  with  old  songs,  honest 
thoughts,  and  prayers,  but  short  ones;  yet  they  have  their  efficacy,  in 
that  they  are  not  pauled  with  ensuing  idle  cogitations.  Lastly  :  her 
dreams  are  so  chaste,  that  she  dare  tell  them ;  only  a  Fridaie's  dream  is 
all  her  superstition :  that  shee  conceales  for  feare  of  anger.  Thus  lives 
she,  and  all  her  care  is  that  she  may  die  in  the  spring-time,  to  have 
store  of  flowers  stucke  upon  her  winding-sheet. 

SIR  THOMAS  OVERBCRY,  1581-1618. 


SHEEP-PASTURES. 

The  Teviot  takes  its  course  through  wide  valleys  of  smooth,  extended 
pasturage,  sloping  down  to  it  in  all  directions,  and  in  general  forming 
beautiful  lines,  though  otherwise  void  of  all  those  circumstances,  and 
that  variety  of  objects,  particularly  of  wood,  which  give  beauty  to  land- 
scape. In  some  parts  these  valleys  are  also  contracted,  but  in  a  differ- 
ent manner  from  those  of  the  Esk.  The  same  breadth  of  feature  is  still 
preserved  which  we  had  in  the  more  open  parts,  only  it  is  here  brought 
nearer  to  the  eye.  Though  the  lofty  skreens  rush  down  precipitately  to 
the  river,  and  contract  the  valleys,  you  see  plainly  they  are  the  parts  of 

6* 


130  THE      FLOCK. 

a  large-featured  country,  and  in  a  style  of  landscape  very  different  from 
those  little  irriguous  valleys  which  we  had  left. 

The  downy  sides  of  all  these  valleys  are  covered  with  sheep,  which 
often  appear  to  hang  upon  immense  green  walls.  So  steep  is  the  descent 
in  some  parts,  that  the  eye  from  the  bottom  scarce  distinguishes  the 
slope  from  a  perpendicular.  Several  of  these  mountainous  slopes  (for 
some  of  them  are  very  lofty)  are  finely  tinted  with  mosses  of  different 
hues,  which  give  them  a  very  rich  surface.  This,  however,  is  probably 
the  garb  which  nature  wears  only  in  the  summer  months.  She  has  a 
variety  of  dresses  for  all  seasons,  and  all  so  becoming,  that  when  she  de- 
posits one,  and  assumes  another,  she  is  always  adorned  with  beauties 
peculiar  to  herself. 

GILPIN'S  "  Highlands  of  Scotland." 


THE    SPINNER'S    SONG. 

Turn,  busy  wheel,  turn,  busy  wheel, 
And  pile  upon  the  circling  reel 

A  thread  as  fine  and  free 
As  that  the  insect  artist  weaves, 
In  autumn  mornings,  'midst  the  leaves, 

Of  yon  old  apple-tree, 

The  moss-grown  apple-tree, 

The  dewy,  filmy  apple-tree ! 

Turn,  busy  wheel,  turn  swiftly  round, 
And  blend  with  my  wild  song  thy  sound 

Of  peaceful  industry ; 
Such  sound  as  loads  the  summer  breeze, 
When,  gathering  their  sweet  store,  the  bees 

Crowd  yon  broad  linden-tree, 

The  flowery,  shadowy  linden-tree  ! 

MARY  E.  MITFORD. 


SONG    FOR    THE    SPINNING-WHEEL. 

FOUNDED   UPON   A   BELIEF    PREVALENT   AMONG   THE    PASTORAL   VALK8    OK   WESTMORELAND. 

Swiftly  turn  the  murmuring  wheel ! 

Night  has  brought  the  welcome  hour, 
When  the  weary  fingers  feel 

Help  as  if  from  fairy  power ; 
Dewy  night  o'ershades  the  ground, 
Turn  the  swift  wheel  round  and  round. 


THE      FLOCK.  131 

Now  beneath  the  starry  sky 

Rest  the  widely-scattered  sheep  ; 
Ply  the  pleasant  labor,  ply, 

For  the  spindle,  while  they  sleep, 
With  a  motion  smooth  and  fine, 
Gathers  up  a  trustier  line. 

Short-lived  likings  may  be  bred 

By  a  glance  of  feeble  eyes  ; 
But  true  love  is  like  the  thread 

Which  the  kindly  wool  supplies, 
When  the  flocks  are  all  at  rest, 
Sleeping  on  the  mountain's  breast. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


WURTHA. 

Through  the  autumn  mists  so  red 
Shot  the  slim  and  golden  stocks 

Of  the  ripe  corn ;  Wurtha  said, 
"  Let  us  cut  them  for  our  flocks." 

Answered  I,  "  When  morning  leaves 
Her  bright  footprints  on  the  sea, 

As  I  cut  and  bind  the  sheaves, 
Wurtha,  thou  shalt  glean  for  me." 

"  Nay  ;  the  full  moon  shines  so  bright, 

All  along  the  vale  below, 
I  could  count  our  flocks  to-night ; 

Haco,  let  us  rise  and  go ; 
For  when  bright  the  risen  morn 

Leaves  her  footprints  on  the  sea, 
Thou  may'st  cut  and  bind  the  corn, 

But  I  can  not  glean  for  thee." 

And  as  I  my  reed  so  light 

Blowing  sat,  her  fears  to  calm, 
Said  she,  "  Haco,  yesternight, 

In  my  dream,  I  missed  a  lamb ; 
And  as  down  the  misty  vale 

Went  I  pining  for  the  lost, 
Something  shadowy  and  pale 

And  phantom-like  my  pathway  crossed- 
Saying,  « In  a  chilly  bed, 

Low  and  dark,  but  full  of  peace, 


132  THEFLOCK. 

For  your  coming,  softly  spread, 
Is  the  dead  lamb's  snowy  fleece.' " 

Passed  the  sweetest  of  all  eves — 

Morn  was  breaking  for  our  flocks  ; 
"  Let  us  go  and  bind  the  sheaves, 

All  the  slim  and  golden  stocks  ; 
Wake,  my  Wurtha,  wake" — but  still 

Were  her  lips  as  still  could  be, 
And  her  folded  hands  too  chill 

Ever  more  to  glean  for  me. 

ALICE  CARET. 

TO    MEADOWS. 

Ye  have  been  fresh  and  green, 
Ye  have  been  filled  with  flowers ; 

And  ye  the  walks  have  been 

Where  maids  have  spent  their  hours. 

Ye  have  beheld  where  they 

With  wicker  arks  did  come, 
To  kiss  and  bear  away 

The  richer  cowslips  home. 

You've  heard  them  sweetly  sing, 

And  seen  them  in  a  round ; 
Each  virgin,  like  the  spring, 

With  honeysuckles  crowned. 

But  now  we  see  none  here 

Whose  silvery  feet  did  tread, 
And  with  disheveled  hair 

Adorned  this  smoother  mead. 

Like  unthrifts,  having  spent 

Your  stock,  and  needy  grown, 
You're  left  here  to  lament 

Your  poor  estates  alone. 

KOBEBT  HEEEIOK,  1591. 


FRENCH    SONG. 

Dear  the  felicity, 

Gentle,  and  fair,  and  sweet, 
Love  and  simplicity, 

When  tender  shepherds  meet : 


THE      FLOCK.  133 

Better  than  store  of  gold, 
Silver  and  gems  untold, 
Manners  refined  and  cold, 

Which  to  our  lords  belong  ! 
We,  when  our  toil  is  past, 
Softest  delight  can  taste, 
While  summer's  beauties  last, 

Dance,  feast,  and  jocund  song  ; 
And  in  our  hearts  a  joy 
No  envy  can  destroy. 
Translated  ly  LOUISA  COSTELLO.  MARTIAL  D'ATTVEEGJTE,  1440-150S. 


VIII. 


AMONG  the  pieces  in  the  following  group  will  be  found 
some  old  verses  of  Gawain  Douglas,  bishop  of  Dunkeld. 
This  ancient  Scottish  poet  and  Church  dignitary  was  a  son 
of  the  famous  Archibald,  earl  of  Argus,  surnamed  Bell-the- 
Cat,  from  his  share  in  one  of  the  peculiar  conspiracies  of  that 
strange  period — a  conspiracy  which  resulted  in  hanging  a 
number  of  the  royal  favorites  of  James  III.,  chiefly  architects 
and  musicians,  ennobled  by  that  prince.  James  was  in  this 
respect  too  liberal  in  his  tastes  to  please  the  fierce  old  barons 
surrounding  his  throne,  though  doubtless  his  favor  was  often 
weakly  lavished  upon  those  in  whose  society  he  took  pleasure. 
But  one  would  hardly  have  expected  to  find  the  leader  of  such 
a  conspiracy  the  father  of  a  distinguished  poet ;  such,  how- 
ever, was  the  fact.  Bishop  Gawain  was  a  great  clerk  in  his 
day.  He  wrote  a  metrical  version  of  the  ^Eneid  in  the  Scot- 
tish dialect,  and  many  lesser  poetical  works,  admitted  to  pos- 


THEOARLAND.  135 

sess  great  merit.  Sir  Walter  Scott  has  introduced  both  father 
and  son  in  Marmion.  He  makes  old  Bell-the-Cat  appear  in 
his  true  character : 

*  A  letter  forged !  Saint  Jude  to  speed  ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ! 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill, 
When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 
Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line ; 
So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still — 

Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill." 

Canto  VI. 

And  in  another  passage  we  have  the  poet-bishop  himself : 

"  Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light, 
Checkering  the  silver  moonshine  bright — 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood, 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas'  blood. 
With  mitre  sheen,  and  rocquet  white. 
Yet  show'd  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye, 
But  little  pride  of  prelacy ; 
More  pleased  that  in  a  barbarous  age 
He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page, 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 

The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld." 

Canto  VI. 

Bishop  Gawain  was  compelled  by  the  troubles  in  Scotland 
to  flee  from  his  native  country,  and  to  take  refuge  at  the  court 
of  Henry  VIII.,  where  he  lived  for  years  an  honored  exile, 
dying  in  1522,  at  London,  of  the  plague.  He  was  born  in 
1474.  Each  canto  of  his  translation  of  Virgil  was  preceded 
by  an  original  prologue  ;  the  address  to  Spring — whence  the 
extract  on  flowers  is  taken — is  one  of  the  most  pleasing  of 
these,  and  forms  his  introduction  to  the  12th  Canto  of  the 
JEneid.  Far  from  regretting  the  Scotticisms  of  his  style,  the 
bishop  only  mourned  that  his  verses  were  still  so  English  in 
their  aspect :  a  defect  which  will  not  be  likely  to  strike  the 
modern  reader.  But  in  spite  of  the  obsolete  words  and  rug- 
ged style,  the  touch  of  a  poetical  spirit,  and  something  of  the 
freshness  of  the  natural  blossoms  still  lingers  about  Bishop 
Gawain's  Spring  chuplet. 


136  THE      GARLAND 


FLOWERS. 

Through  their  beauty,  and  variety  of  coloure,  and  exquisite  forme, 
they  do  bringe  to  a  liberal  and  gentle  minde  the  remembrance  of  hon- 
estie,  comelinesse,  and  all  kinds  of  virtues;  for  it  would  be  an  unseemly 
thing  (as  a  certain  wise  man  saith)  for  him  that  doth  look  upon  and  han- 
dle faire  and  beautiful  things,  and  who  frequenteth  and  is  conversant 
in  faire  and  beautiful  places,  to  have  his  minde  not  faire  also. 

JOHN  GERABDE,  1545-1607. 


SPRING-FLOWERS. 

And  blissful  blossoms  in  the  bloomed  sward, 

Submit  their  heads  in  the  young  sun's  safeguard ; 

Ivy-leaves  rank  o'erspread  the  barkmekyn  wall ; 

The  bloomed  hawthorn  clad  his  pykis  all 

Forth  of  fresh  burgeons ;  the  wine-grapis  ying, 

Endlong  the  twistis  did  on  trestles  hing. 

The  locked  buttons  on  the  gummed  trees, 

O'erspreadant  leaves  of  nature's  tapestries ; 

Soft,  grassy  verdure,  after  balmy  showers, 

On  curland  stalkis  smiland  to  their  flowers, 

Beholdant  them  so  maine  devirs  hue  : 

Some  pers,  some  pale,  some  burnet,  and  some  blue  ; 

Some  gray,  some  gules,  some  purpure,  some  sanguene, 

Blanchet,  or  brown,  fauch-colour  many  one — 

Some  heavenly-coloured  in  celestial  gre, 

Some  watery-hued,  as  the  haw-waly  sea ; 

And  some  depeint  in  freckles  red  and  white  ; 

Some  bright  as  gold,  with  aureate  levis  lite. 

The  daisie  did  unbraid  her  crownal  small, 

And  every  flower  unlapped  in  the  dale. 

The  flower-de-luce  forth  spread  out  his  heavenly  hue, 

Flower-damas,  and  columbo  black  and  blue, 

Sere  downis  smale  on  dandelion  sprung, 

The  young  green-bloomed  strawberry  leaves  among ; 

Gimp  gilliflowers  their  own  leaves  unshet 

Fresh  primrose,  and  the  purpure  violet. 

The  rose-knobbis  tetand  forth  their  heads. 

Gen  chip  and  kyth  their  vernal  lippis  red, 

Crisp  scarlet  leaves  sheddant  baith  at  aines, 

Cast  fragrant  smell  amid  from  golden  grains. 


THE      GARLAND.  137 

Heavenly  lilies  \vith  lockerand  toppis  white 

Opened,  and  shew  their  crestis  redemite, 

The  balmy  vapour  from  their  silver  croppis 

Distilland  wholesome  sugared  honey-droppis, 

So  that  ilke  burgeon,  scion,  herb,  or  flower 

Wose  all  embalmed  of  the  sweet  liquore 

And  bathed  did  in  dulce  humoures  flete 

Whereof  the  beeis  wrought  their  honey  sweet. 

GAWAIN  DOUGLAS,  Bishop  of  Dunkeld. 

Bttrmckyn,  barbican ;  pers,  light  blue ;  burnet,  brownish ;  gules,  scarlet ;  fauch- 
colour,  fawn ;  celestial  gre,  sky-blue  ;  haw-waly,  dark-waved ;  lite,  little ;  Jlowtr- 
damas,  damask  rose  ;  roce-knobbis  tetand,  rose-buds  peeping ;  kyth,  show ;  loch- 
erand,  curling ;  redemite,  crowned  ;  croppis,  heads. 


ARRANGEMENTS    OF    A    BOUQUET. 

Here  damask  roses,  white  and  red,   " 

Out  of  my  lap  first  take  I, 
Which  still  shall  run  along  the  thread 

My  chiefest  flower  this  make  I. 

Among  these  roses  in  a  row, 
Next  place  I  pinks  in  plenty, 

These  double  pansies  then  for  show, 
And  will  not  this  be  dainty  ? 

The  pretty  pansy  then  I'll  tie 

Like  stones  some  chain  enchasing ; 

And  next  to  them,  their  near  ally, 
The  purple  violet  placing. 

The  curious  choice  clove  July  flower, 
Whose  kind  hight  the  carnation, 

For  sweetness  of  most  sovereign  power, 
Shall  help  my  wreath  to  fashion ; 

Whose  sundry  colors  of  one  kind, 

First  from  one  root  derived, 
Them  in  their  several  suits  I'll  bind : 

My  garland  so  contrived. 

A  course  of  cowslips  then  I'll  stick, 
And  here  and  there  (so  sparely) 

The  pleasant  primrose  down  Til  prick, 
Like  pearls  that  will  show  rarely ; 


138  THE      GARLAND. 

Then  with  these  marigolds  I'll  make 

My  garland  somewhat  swelling, 
These  honeysuckles  then  I'll  take. 

Whose  sweets  shall  help  their  smelling. 

The  lily  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

For  color  much  contending, 
For  that  I  them  do  only  prize, 

They  are  but  poor  in  scenting  ; 

The  daffodil  most  dainty  is, 

To  match  with  these  in  meetness ; 

The  columbine  compared  to  this, 
All  much  alike  for  sweetness. 

These  in  their  natures  only  are 

Fit  to  emboss  the  border, 
Therefore  I'll  take  especial  care 

To  place  them  in  their  order  : 

Sweet-williams,  campions,  sops-in-wine, 

One  by  another  neatly  : 
Thus  have  I  made  this  wreath  of  mine, 

And  finished  it  featly. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON,  1563-1681. 


HEART'S-EASE, 


I  saw, 

Flying  between  the  cold  moon  and  the  earth, 
Cupid  all  arm'd ;  a  certain  aim  he  took 
At  a  fair  vestal  throned  in  the  west. 
And  loosed  his  love-shaft  smartly  from  his  bow, 
As  it  should  pierce  a  hundred  thousand  hearts. 
But  I  might  see  young  Cupid's  fiery  shaft 
Quench'd  in  the  chaste  beams  of  the  wat'ry  moon. 
And  the  imperial  vot'ress  passed  on, 
In  maiden  meditation,  fancy-free. 
Yet  mark'd  I  where  the  bolt  of  Cupid  fell : 
It  fell  upon  a  little  western  flower, 
Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wound, 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness. 
The  juice  of  it,  on  sleeping  eyelids  laid, 
Will  make  a  man  or  woman  madly  dote 
Upon  the  next  live  creature  that  it  sees. 

W.  SHAKSPEARE,  1564-1616. 


THE      GARLAND.  139 


THE    GARLAND. 

The  pride  of  every  grove  I  chose, 

The  violet  sweet,  the  lily  fair, 
The  dappled  pink  and  blushing  rose, 

To  deck  my  charming  Chloe's  hair. 

At  morn  the  nymph  vouchsafed  to  place 
Upon  her  brow  the  various  wreath  ; 

The  flowers  less  blooming  than  her  face, 
The  scent  less  fragrant  than  her  breath. 

The  flowers  she  wore  along  the  day  ; 

And  every  nymph  and  shepherd  said, 
That  in  her  hair  they  look'd  more  gay 

Than  glowing  in  their  native  bed. 

Undress'd  at  evening,  when  she  found 
Their  odors  lost,  their  colors  past, 

She  changed  her  look,  and  on  the  ground 
Her  garland  and  her  eye  she  cast. 

That  eye  dropp'd  sense  distinct  and  clear, 
As  any  Muse's  tongue  could  speak, 

When  from  its  lid  a  pearly  tear 
Ran  trickling  down  her  beauteous  cheek. 

Dissembling  what  I  knew  too  well, 
"  My  love,  my  life,"  said  I,  "  explain 

This  change  of  humor  ;  pr'ythee  tell : 
That  falling  tear — what  does  it  mean  ?" 

She  sigh'd ;  she  smiled  :  and  to  the  flowers 
Pointing,  the  lovely  moralist  said — 

"  See,  friend,  in  some  few  fleeting  hours, 
See  yonder,  what  a  change  is  made !" 

Ah  me  !  the  blooming  pride  of  May, 
And  that  of  beauty,  are  but  one : 

At  morn  both  flourish  bright  and  gay ; 
Both  fade  at  evening,  pale,  and  gone. 

At  dawn  poor  Stella  danced  and  sung, 
The  amorous  youth  around  her  bow'd : 

At  night  her  fatal  knell  was  rung ; 
I  saw  and  kiss'd  her  in  her  shroud. 


140  THE      GAR  LAND. 

Such  as  she  is,  who  died  to-day, 

Such  I,  alas  !  may  be  to-morrow  ; 
Go,  Damon,  bid  the  Muse  display 

The  justice  of  thy  Chloe's  sorrow. 

MATTHEW  PEIOE,  1664rlT21. 


TO    PRIMROSES 


FILLKD    WITH   MORNING    DEW. 


Why  do  ye  weep,  sweet  babes  ?     Can  tears 
Speak  grief  in  you, 
Who  were  but  born 
Just  as  the  modest  morn 
Teem'd  her  refreshing  dew ! 
Alas  !  ye  have  not  known  that  shower 
That  mars  a  flower ; 
Nor  felt  the  unkind 
Breath  of  a  blasting  wind ; 
Nor  are  ye  worn  with  years  ; 
Or  warp'd  as  we, 
Who  think  it  strange  to  see 
Such  pretty  flowers,  like  to  orphans  young, 
Speaking  by  tears  before  ye  have  a  tongue. 

Speak,  whimpering  younglings,  and  make  known 
The  reason  why 

Ye  droop  and  weep  ; 
Is  it  for  want  of  sleep, 
Or  childish  lullaby  ? 
Or  that  ye  have  not  seen  as  yet 
The  violet  ? 
Or  brought  a  kiss 
From  that  sweetheart  to  this  ? 
No,  no  ;  this  sorrow  shown, 
By  your  tears  shed, 
Would  have  this  lecture  read  : 
That  things  of  greatest,  so  of  meanest  worth, 
Conceived  with  grief  are,  and  with  tears  brought  forth. 
EGBERT  HERRICK,  1591. 


THE      GARLAND.  141 


TO    THE    NARCISSUS. 

Arise,  and  speak  thy  sorrows,  Echo,  rise  ; 
Here,  by  this  fountain,  where  thy  love  did  pine, 
Whose  memory  lives  fresh  to  vulgar  fame, 
Shrined  in  this  yellow  flower,  that  bears  his  name. 

ECHO. 

His  name  revives,  and  lifts  me  up  from  earth ; 

See,  see  the  mourning  fount,  whose  springs  weep  yet 

Th'  untimely  fate  of  that  too  beauteous  boy, 

That  trophy  of  self-love,  and  spoil  of  nature, 

Who  (now  transform'd  into  this  drooping  flower) 

Hangs  the  repentant  head  back  from  the  stream ; 

As  if  it  wish'd — would  I  had  never  look'd 

In  such  a  flattering  mirror !  0,  Narcissus ! 

Thou  that  wast  once  (and  yet  art)  my  Narcissus, 

Had  Echo  but  been  private  with  thy  thoughts, 

She  would  have  dropped  away  herself  in  tears 

Till  she  had  all  turn'd  waste,  that  in  her 

(As  in  a  true  glass)  thou  might'st  have  gazed, 

And  seen  thy  beauties  by  more  kind  reflection. 

But  self-love  never  yet  could  look  on  truth 

But  with  blear'd  beams  ;  slick  flattery  and  she 

Are  twin-born  sisters,  and  do  mix  their  eyes, 

As  if  you  sever  one,  the  other  dies. 

Why  did  the  gods  give  thee  a  heavenly  form, 

And  earthly  thoughts  to  make  thee  proud  of  it  ? 

Why  do  I  ask  ?    'Tis  now  the  known  disease 

That  beauty  hath,  to  bear  too  deep  a  sense 

Of  her  own  self-conceived  excellence. 

0  hadst  thou  known  the  worth  of  Heaven's  rich  gift, 

Thou  wouldst  have  turn'd  it  to  a  truer  use, 

And  not  (with  starved  and  covetous  ignorance) 

Pined  in  continual  eyeing  that  bright  gem, 

The  glance  whereof  to  others  had  been  more 

Than  to  thy  famish'd  mind  the  wide  world's  store. 

BKN  JONSON,  1574-1637. 


142  THE      GARLAND 


THE    ROSE. 

Go,  lovely  rose ! 
Tell  her  that  wastes  her  time  and  me, 

That  now  she  knows, 
When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
How  sweet  and  fair  she  seems  to  be. 

Tell  her  that's  young, 
And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 

That  hadst  thou  sprung 
In  deserts  where  no  men  abide, 
Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 

Small  is  the  worth 
Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 

Bid  her  come  forth, 
Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 

Then  die,  that  she 
The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 

May  read  in  thee  ; 
How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share 
That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 

Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise  ; 

And  teach  the  maid 
That  goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies ; 
That  virtue  lives  when  beauty  dies. 

EDMUND  WALLER,  1605-1687. 


ANCIENT    SERVIAN    SONG. 

0  my  fountain,  so  fresh  and  cool, 
0  my  rose,  so  rosy  red  ! 
Why  art  thou  blown  out  so  early  ? 
None  have  I  to  pluck  thee  for  ! 
If  I  plucked  thee  for  my  mother — 
Ah,  poor  girl,  I  have  no  mother. 
If  I  plucked  thee  for  my  sister — 
Gone  is  my  sister  with  her  husband. 


THE      GAR  I.  AND.  143 

If  I  plucked  thee  for  my  brother— 

To  the  war  my  brother's  gone. 

If  I  plucked  thee  for  my  lover — 

Gone  's  my  lover  far  away ! 

Far  away,  o'er  three  green  mountains, 

Far  away,  o'er  three  cool  fountains ! 

Translated  ly  TALVI. 


TO    BLOSSOMS. 

Fair  pledges  of  a  fruitful  tree, 

Why  do  ye  fall  so  fast  ? 

Your  date  is  not  so  past 
But  you  may  stay  yet  here  awhile, 

To  blush  and  gently  smile, 
And  go  at  last. 

What  were  ye  born  to  be, 

An  hour  or  half's  delight, 

And  so  to  bid  good-night '". 
'Twas  pity  nature  brought  ye  forth, 

Merely  to  show  your  worth, 
And  lose  you  quite. 

But  you  are  lovely  leaves,  where  we 
May  read  how  soon  things  have 
Their  end,  though  ne'er  so  brave ; 
And  after  they  have  shown  their  pride, 
Like  you  awhile  they  glide, 
Into  the  grave. 

KOBEKT  HEBRICK,  1591. 


CHILDREN'S    POSIES. 

FROM   "  JOURNAL   OF  A  NATURALIST." 

The  amusements  and  fancies  of  children,  when  connected  with  flow- 
ers, are  always  pleasing,  being  generally  the  conceptions  of  innocent 
minds  unbiased  by  artifice  or  pretense ;  and  their  love  of  them  seems 
to  spring  from  a  genuine  feeling  and  admiration — a  kind  of  sympathy 
with  objects  as  fair  as  their  own  untainted  minds;  and  I  think  it  is 
early  flowers  which  constitute  their  first  natural  playthings;  though 
summer  presents  a  greater  number  and  variety,  they  are  not  so  fondly 
selected.  We  have  our  daisies  strung  and  wreathed  about  our  dress ; 
our  coronals  of  orchises  and  primroses,  our  cowslip  balls,  etc. ;  and  one 


144  THEGARLAND. 

application  of  flowers  at  this  season  I  have  noticed,  which,  though  per- 
haps it  is  local,  yet  it  has  a  remarkably  pretty  effect,  forming,  for  the 
time,  one  of  the  gayest  little  shrubs  that  can  be  seen.  A  small  branch 
or  long  spray  of  the  whitethorn,  with  all  its  spines  uninjured,  is  selected ; 
and  on  these,  its  alternate  thorns,  a  white  and  blue  violet,  plucked  from 
their  stalks,  are  stuck  upright  in  succession,  until  the  thorns  are  cover- 
ed, and  when  placed  in  a  flower-pot  of  moss,  it  has  perfectly  the  appear- 
ance of  a  beautiful  vernal  flowering  dwarf  shrub,  and  as  long  as  it 
remains  fresh  is  an  object  of  surprise  and  delight. 

J.  L.  KNAPP. 


LOVE'S    WREATH. 

When  Love  was  a  child,  and  went  idling  round 

Among  flowers  the  whole  summer's  day, 
One  morn  in  the  valley  a  bower  he  found, 

So  sweet,  it  allured  him  to  stay. 

O'erhead  from  the  trees  hung  a  garland  fair, 

A  fountain  ran  darkly  beneath  ; 
'Twas  Pleasure  that  hung  the  bright  flowers  up  there, 

Love  knew  it  and  jump'd  at  the  wreath. 

But  Love  did  not  know — and  at  his  weak  years. 

What  urchin  was  likely  to  know  ? — 
That  sorrow  had  made  of  her  own  salt  tears, 

That  fountain  which  murmur'd  below. 

He  caught  at  the  wreath,  but  with  too  much  haste, 

As  boys  when  impatient  will  do  ; 
It  fell  in  those  waters  of  briny  taste, 

And  the  flowers  were  all  wet  through. 

Yet  this  is  the  wreath  he  wears  night  and  day  ; 

And  though  it  all  sunny  appears 
With  Pleasure's  own  luster,  each  leaf,  they  say. 

Still  tastes  of  the  fountain  of  tears. 

THOMAS  MOORE. 


TO    DAFFODILS. 

Fair  daffodils,  we  weep  to  see 
You  haste  away  so  soon  ; 

As  yet,  the  early-rising  sun 
Has  not  attain'd  its  noon. 


THEGARLAND  H5 

Stay,  stay, 
Until  the  hastening  day 

Has  run 

But  to  the  even  song  ; 

And  having  pray'd  together,  we 

Will  go  with  you  along. 

We  have  short  time  to  stay  as  you, 

We  have  as  short  a  spring  ; 
As  quick  a  growth  to  meet  decay, 
As  you  or  any  thing. 

We  die, 
As  your  hours  do,  and  dry 

Away, 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning's  dew. 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

EGBERT  HERRICK,  1591. 


THE    LILY. 

The  stream  with  languid  murmur  creeps 

In  Lumin's  flow'ry  vale : 
Beneath  the  dew  the  lily  weeps, 

Slow  waving  to  the  gale. 

"  Cease,  restless  gale  !"  it  seems  to  say, 

"  Nor  wake  me  with  thy  sighing  ; 
The  honors  of  my  vernal  day 

On  rapid  wings  are  flying. 

*'  To-morrow  shall  the  traveler  come 

Who  late  beheld  me  blooming ; 
His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 

The  dreary  vale  of  Lumin." 

SAMITEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


WILD    FLOWERS. 

I  stood  tiptoe  upon  a  little  hill ; 

The  air  was  cooling,  and  so  very  still, 

That  the  sweet  buds  which  with  a  modest  prid< 

Fell  droopingly  in  slanting  curve  aside, 

Their  scanty-leaved  and  finely  tapering  stems 

Had  not  yet  lost  their  starry  diadems, 


146  THE      GARLAND. 

Caught  from  the  early  sobbings  of  the  morn. 

The  clouds  were  pure  and  white  as  flocks  new  shorn. 

And  fresh  from  the  clear  brook ;  sweetly  they  slept 

On  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  and  then  there  crept 

A  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves, 

Born  of  the  very  sigh  that  silence  heaves ; 

For  not  the  faintest  motion  could  be  seen 

Of  all  the  shades  that  slanted  o'er  the  green. 

There  was  wide  wandering  for  the  greediest  eye. 

To  peer  about  upon  variety ; 

Far  round  the  horizon's  crystal  air  to  skim, 

And  trace  the  dwindled  edgings  of  its  brim ; 

To  picture  out  the  quaint  and  curious  bending 

Of  a  fresh  woodland  alley  never-ending  : 

Or  by  the  bowery  clefts  and  leafy  shelves, 

Guess  where  the  jaunty  streams  refresh  themselves. 

I  gazed  awhile,  and  felt  as  light  and  free 

As  though  the  fanning  wings  of  Mercury 

Had  play'd  upon  my  heels  :  I  was  light-hearted, 

And  many  pleasures  to  my  vision  started  ; 

So  I  straightway  began  to  pluck  a  posy 

Of  luxuries  bright,  milky,  soft,  and  rosy. 

A  bush  of  May-flowers  with  the  bees  about  them  ; 

Ah,  sure  no  tasteful  nook  could  be  without  them  ; 

And  let  a  lush  laburnum  oversweep  them, 

And  let  long  grass  grow  round  the  roots,  to  keep  them 

Moist,  cool,  and  green ;  and  shade  the  violets, 

That  they  may  bind  the  moss  in  leafy  nets. 

A  filbert-edge  with  wild-brier  overtwined, 
And  clumps  of  woodbine  taking  the  soft  wind 
Upon  their  summer  thrones  ;  there  too  should  be 
The  frequent  checker  of  a  youngling  tree, 
That  with  a  score  of  bright-green  brethren  shoots 
From  the  quaint  mossiness  of  aged  roots : 
Round  which  is  heard  a  spring  head  of  clear  waters. 
Prattling  so  wildly  of  its  lovely  daughters, 
The  spreading  blue-bells  :  it  may  haply  mourn 
That  such  fair  clusters  should  be  rudely  torn 
From  their  fresh  beds,  and  scattered  thoughtlessly 
By  infant  hands  left  on  the  path  to  die. 
Open  afresh  your  round  of  starry  folds, 
Ye  ardent  marigolds ! 

Dry  up  the  moisture  from  your  golden  lids, 
For  great  Apollo  bids 
That  in  these  days  your  praises  should  be  sung 


THE      GARLAND.  147 

On  many  harps,  which  he  has  lately  strung ; 
And  when  again  your  dewiness  he  kisses, 
Tell  him,  I  have  you  in  my  world  of  blisses : 
So  haply  when  I  rove  in  some  far  vale, 
His  mighty  voice  may  come  upon  the  gale. 

Here  are  sweet-peas,  on  tiptoe  for  a  flight, 
With  wings  of  gentle  flush  o'er  delicate  white, 
And  taper  fingers  catching  at  all  things, 
To  bind  them  all  about  with  tiny  rings. 
What  next  ?  a  turf  of  evening  primroses, 
O'er  which  the  mind  may  hover  till  it  dozes ; 
O'er  which  it  well  might  take  a  pleasant  sleep, 
But  that  'tis  ever  startled  by  the  leap 
Of  buds  into  ripe  flowers. 

JOHN  KEATS. 


TO    THE    SWEET-BRIER. 

Our  sweet  autumnal  western-scented  wind 
Robs  of  its  odor  none  so  sweet  a  flower, 
In  all  the  blooming  waste  it  left  behind, 
As  that  sweet-brier  yields  it ;  and  the  shower 
Wets  not  a  rose  that  buds  in  beauty's  bower 
One  half  so  lovely  ;  yet  it  grows  along 
The  poor  girl's  pathway  ;  by  the  poor  man's  door. 
Such  are  the  simple  folks  it  dwells  among ; 
And  humble  as  the  bud,  so  humble  be  the  song. 

I  love  it,  for  it  takes  its  untouch'd  stand 
Not  in  the  vase  that  sculptors  decorate  ; 
Its  sweetness  all  is  of  my  native  land  ; 
And  e'en  its  fragrant  leaf  has  not  its  mate 
Among  the  perfumes  which  the  rich  and  great 
Bring  from  the  odors  of  the  spicy  East. 
You  love  your  flowers  and  plants,  and  will  you  hate 
The  little  four-leaved  rose  that  I  love  best, 
That  freshest  will  awake,  and  sweetest  go  to  rest  ? 

J.  G,  C.  BRAINARD. 


148  THE      GARLAND. 


THE    WILD    HONEYSUCKLE. 

Fair  flower,  that  dost  so  comely  grow, 

Hid  in  this  silent,  dull  retreat, 
Untouch'd  thy  honeyed  blossoms  blow, 
Unseen  thy  little  branches  greet : 
No  roving  foot  shall  crush  thee  here, 
No  busy  hand  provoke  a  tear. 

By  Nature's  self  in  white  array'd. 

She  bade  thee  shun  the  vulgar  eye, 
And  planted  here  the  guardian  shade, 
And  sent  soft  waters  murmuring  by  ; 
Thus  quietly  thy  summer  goes, 
Thy  days  declining  to  repose. 

Smit  with  those  charms  that  must  decay, 

I  grieve  to  see  your  future  doom  ; 
They  died— nor  were  those  flowers  more  gay 
The  flowers  that  did  in  Eden  bloom  ; 
Unpitying  frosts  and  Autumn's  power 
Shall  leave  no  vestige  of  this  flower. 

From  morning  suns  and  evening  dews 

At  first  thy  little  being  came  : 
If  nothing  once,  you  nothing  lose, 
or  when  you  die  you  are  the  same ; 
The  space  between  is  but  an  hour — 
The  frail  duration  of  a  flower. 

PHILIP  FKENEAIT,  1752-1882. 


WILD    FLOWERS. 

I  dreamed  that,  as  I  wander'd  by  the  way, 
Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring, 

And  gentle  odors  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mix'd  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 

Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 
Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 

Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 

But  kiss'd  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  a  dream. 


THE     .GARLAND.  149 

There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 

Daisies,  those  pearl'd  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;  tender  blue-bells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved  ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 
Green  cowbind  and  the  moonlight-color'd  May, 

And  cherry  blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 
Was  the  bright  dew  yet  drain'd  not  by  the  day  ; 

And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray, 

And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streak'd  with  gold  ; 

Fairer  than  any  waken'd  eyes  behold. 

And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt  with  white, 
And  starry  river  buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 

I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprison'd  children  of  the  hours 

Within  my  hand — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hasten'd  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come, 
That  I  might  there  present  it ! — oh,  to  whom  ? 

P.  B.  SHELLEY. 


BEAU    AND    THE    LILY. 

"  I  must  tell  you  a  feat  of  my  dog  Beau.  Walking  by  the  river  side,  I 
observed  some  water-lilies  floating  at  a  little  distance  from  the  bank. 
They  are  a  large  white  flower,  with  an  orange- colored  eye,  very  beauti- 
ful I  had  a  desire  to  gather  one.  and,  having  your  long  cane  in  my 
hand,  by  the  help  of  it  endeavored  to  bring  one  of  them  within  my 
reach.  But  the  attempt  proved  vain,  and  I  walked  forward.  Beau  had 
all  the  while  observed  me  very  attentively.  Returning  soon  after  to- 
ward the  same  place,  I  observed  him  plunge  into  the  river,  while  I  was 


150  THE      GARLAND. 

about  forty  yards  distant  from  him ;  and,  when  I  had  nearly  reached 
the  spot,  he  swam  to  land,  with  a  lily  in  his  mouth,  which  he  came  and 

laid  at  my  feet." 

W.  COWPER  to  Lady  Ifesketh,  Jwne  27%,  1788. 


FLOWERS. 

We  are  the  sweet  flowers, 

Born  of  sunny  showers, 
(Think,  whene'er  you  see  us,  what  our  beauty  saith  ;) 

Utterance,  mute  and  bright, 

Of  some  unknown  delight, 
We  fill  the  air  with  pleasure,  by  our  simple  breath  : 

All  who  see  us  love  us — 

We  befit  all  places  : 
Unto  sorrow  we  give  smiles — and  unto  graces,  races 

Mark  our  ways,  how  noiseless 

All,  and  sweetly  voiceless, 
Though  the  March-winds  pipe,  to  make  our  passage  clear  ; 

Not  a  whisper  tells 

Where  our  small  seed  dwells, 
Nor  is  known  the  moment  green,  when  our  tips  appear. 

We  thread  the  earth  in  silence, 

In  silence  build  our  bowers — 
And  leaf  by  leaf  in  silence  show,  till  we  laugh  a-top,  sweet  flowers. 

The  dear  lumpish  baby, 

Humming  with  the  May-bee, 
Hails  us  with  his  bright  star,  stumbling  through  the  grass ; 

The  honey-dropping  moon, 

On  a  night  in  June, 
Kisses  our  pale  pathway  leaves,  that  felt  the  bridegroom  pass. 

Age,  the  wither'd  clinger, 

On  us  mutely  gazes, 
And  wraps  the  thought  of  his  last  bed  in  his  childhood's  daisies. 

See  (and  scorn  all  duller 

Taste)  how  heav'n  loves  color ; 
How  great  Nature,  clearly,  joys  in  red  and  green ; 

What  sweet  thoughts  she  thinks 

Of  violets  and  pinks, 
And  a  thousand  flushing  hues,  made  solely  to  be  seen  : 

See  her  whitest  lilies 

Chill  the  silver  showers, 
And  what  a  red  mouth  is  her  rose,  the  woman  of  her  flowers. 


THE      GARLAND.  151 

Uselessness  divinest, 

Of  a  use  the  finest, 
Painteth  us,  the  teachers  of  the  end  of  use  ; 

Travelers,  weary  eyed, 

Bless  us,  far  and  wide  ; 
Unto  sick  and  prison'd  thoughts  we  give  sudden  truce  : 

Not  a  poor  town  window 

Loves  its  sickliest  planting, 
But  its  wall  speaks  loftier  truth  than  Babylonian  vaunting. 

Sagest  yet  the  uses, 

Mix'd  with  our  sweet  juices, 
Whether  man  or  May-fly,  profit  of  the  balm, 

As  fair  fingers  heal'd 

Knights  from  the  olden  field 
We  hold  cups  of  mightiest  force  to  give  the  wildest  calm. 

Ev'n  the  terror,  poison, 

Hath  its  plea  for  blooming ; 
Life  it  gives  to  reverent  lips,  though  death  to  the  presuming. 

And  oh  !  our  sweet  soul-taker, 

That  thief,  the  honey  maker, 
What  a  house  hath  he,  by  the  thymy  glen  ! 

In  his  talking  rooms 

How  the  feasting  fumes, 
Till  the  gold  cups  overflow  to  the  mouths  of  men ! 

The  butterflies  come  aping 

Those  fine  thieves  of  ours, 
And  flutter  round  our  rifled  tops,  like  tickled  flowers  with  flowers. 

See  those  tops,  how  beauteous  ! 

What  fair  service  duteous 
Round  some  idol  waits,  as  on  their  lord  the  Nine 

Elfin  court  'twould  seem ; 

And  taught,  perchance,  that  dream 
Which  the  old  Greek  mountain  dreamt,  upon  nights  divine. 

To  expound  such  wonder 

Human  speech  avails  not ; 
Yet  there  dies  no  poorest  weed,  that  such  a  glory  exhales  not. 

Think  of  all  these  treasures, 

Matchless  works  and  pleasures, 
Every  one  a  marvel,  more  than  thought  can  say  ; 

Then  think  in  what  bright  showers 

We  thicken  fields  and  bowers, 
And  with  what  heaps  of  sweetness  half  stifle  wanton  May  : 


152  THE      GARLAND. 

Think  of  the  mossy  forests 
By  the  bee-birds  haunted, 
And  all  those  Amazonian  plains,  lone  lying  as  enchanted. 

Trees  themselves  are  ours ; 

Fruits  are  born  of  flowers  ; 
Peach,  and  roughest  nut,  were  blossoms  in  the  spring  ; 

The  lusty  bee  knows  well 

The  news,  and  comes  pell-mell, 
And  dances  in  the  gloomy  thicks  with  darksome  antheming. 

Beneath  the  very  burden 

Of  planet -pressing  ocean, 
We  wash  our  smiling  cheeks  in  peace — a  thought  for  meek  devotion. 

Tears  of  Phoebus — missings 

Of  Cytherea's  kissings, 
Have  in  us  been  found,  and  wise  men  find  them  still ; 

Drooping  grace  unfurls 

Still  Hyacinthus'  curls, 
And  Narcissus  loves  himself  in  the  selfish  rill : 

Thy  red  lip,  Adonis, 

Still  is  wet  with  morning  ; 
And  the  step,  that  bled  for  thee,  the  rosy  brier  adorning. 

0  !  true  things  are  fables, 

Fit  for  sagest  tables, 
And  the  flowers  are  true  things — yet  no  fables  they  ; 

Fables  were  not  more 

Bright,  nor  loved  of  yore — 
Yet  they  grew  not,  like  the  flowers,  by  every  old  pathway  : 

Grossest  hand  can  test  us  ; 

Fools  may  prize  us  never  : 
Yet  we  rise,  and  rise,  and  rise — marvels  sweet  for  ever. 

Who  shall  say,  that  flowers 

Dress  not  heaven's  own  bowers  ? 
Who  its  love,  without  us,  can  fancy — or  sweet  floor  ? 

Who  shall  even  dare 

To  say,  we  sprang  not  there — 

And  came  not  down  that  Love  might  bring  one  piece  of  heaven  the 
more  ? 

0 !  pray  believe  that  angels 

From  those  blue  dominions, 

Brought  us  in  their  white  laps  down,  'twixt  their  golden  pinions. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


THE      GARLAND.  153 


ALPINE    FLOWERS. 

Meek  dwellers  'mid  yon  terror-stricken  cliffs  ! 
With  brows  so  pure,  and  incense-breathing  lips, 
Whence  are  ye  ?    Did  some  white-winged  messenger 
On  mercy's  missions  trust  your  timid  germ 
To  the  cold  cradle  of  eternal  snows  : 
Or,  breathing  on  the  callous  icicles, 
Bid  them  with  tear-drops  nurse  ye  ? 

— Tree  nor  shrub 

Dare  that  drear  atmosphere  ;  no  polar  pine 
Uprears  a  veteran  front ;  yet  there  ye  stand, 
Leaning  your  cheeks  against  the  thick-ribb'd  ice, 
And  looking  up  with  brilliant  eyes  to  Him 
Who  bids  you  bloom  unblanch'd  amid  the  waste 
Of  desolation.     Man,  who,  panting,  toils 
O'er  slippery  steeps,  or,  trembling,  treads  the  verge 
Of  yawning  gulfs,  o'er  which  the  headlong  plunge 
Is  to  eternity,  looks  shuddering  up, 
And  marks  ye  in  your  placid  loveliness — 
Fearless,  yet  frail — and,  clasping  his  still  hands, 
Blesses  your  pencil'd  beauty.     'Mid  the  pomp 
Of  mountain  summits  rushing  on  the  sky, 
And  chaining  the  rapt  soul  in  breathless  awe, 
He  bows  to  bind  you  drooping  to  his  breast, 
Inhales  your  spirit  from  the  frost- wing'd  gale 
And  freer  breathes  of  heaven. 

LYDIA  H.  SIGOUENEY. 


TO    THE    BRAMBLE    FLOWER, 

Thy  fruit  full  well  the  schoolboy  knows, 

Wild  bramble  of  the  brake  ! 
So,  put  thou  forth  thy  small  white  rose  ; 

I  love  it  for  his  sake. 
Though  woodbines  flaunt  and  roses  glow 

O'er  all  the  fragrant  bowers, 
Thou  need'st  not  be  ashamed  to  show 

Thy  satin-threaded  flowers; 
For  dull  the  eye,  the  heart  is  dull 

That  can  not  feel  how  fair, 
Amid  all  beauty,  beautiful 

Thy  tender  blossoms  are  ! 


154  THE      GARLAND. 

How  delicate  thy  gauzy  frill ! 

How  rich  thy  branchy  stem  ! 
How  soft  thy  voice,  when  woods  are  still, 

And  thou  sing'st  hymns  to  them ! 
While  silent  showers  are  falling  slow, 

And,  'mid  the  general  hush, 
A  sweet  air  lifts  the  little  bough, 

Lone  whispering  through  the  bush  ! 
The  primrose  to  the  grave  is  gone  ; 

The  hawthorn  flower  is  dead  ; 
The  violet  by  the  moss'd  gray  stone 

Hath  laid  her  weary  head  ; 
But  thou,  wild  bramble  !  back  dost  bring, 

In  all  their  beauteous  power, 
The  fresh  green  days  of  life's  fair  spring, 

And  boyhood's  blossomy  hour. 
Scorn'd  bramble  of  the  brake  !  once  more 

Thou  bidd'st  me  be  a  boy, 
To  rove  with  thee  the  woodlands  o'er, 

In  freedom  and  in  joy. 

EBENEZER  ELLIOTT. 


THE    PAINTED     CUP. 

The  fresh  savannas  of  the  Sagamon, 
Here  rise  in  gentle  swells,  and  the  long  grass 
Is  mixed  with  rustling  hazels.     Scarlet  tufts 
Are  glowing  in  the  green,  like  flakes  of  fire  ; 
The  wanderers  of  the  prairie  know  them  well, 
And  call  that  brilliant  flower  the  Painted  Cup. 

Now,  if  thou  art  a  poet,  tell  me  not 

That  these  bright  chalices  were  tinted  thus 

To  hold  the  dew  for  fairies,  when  they  meet 

On  moonlight  evenings  in  the  hazel  bowers, 

And  dance  till  they  are  thirsty.     Call  not  up, 

Amid  this  fresh  and  virgin  solitude 

The  faded  fancies  of  an  elder  world  ; 

But  leave  these  scarlet  cups  to  spotted  moths 

Of  June,  and  glistening  flies,  and  humming-birds, 

To  drink  from,  when  on  all  these  boundless  lawns 

The  morning  sun  looks  hot.     Or  let  the  wind 

O'erturn  in  sport  their  ruddy  brims,  and  pour 

A  sudden  shower  upon  the  strawberry  plant, 


THE      GARLAND.  155 

To  swell  the  reddening  fruit  that  even  now 
Breathes  a  slight  fragrance  from  the  sunny  slope. 

But  thou  art  of  a  gayer  fancy.     Well — 
Let  then  the  gentle  Manitou  of  flowers, 
Lingering  amid  the  blooming  waste  he  loves, 
Though  all  his  swarthy  worshipers  are  gone — 
Slender  and  small  his  rounded  cheek  all  brown 
And  ruddy  with  the  sunshine  ;  let  him  come 
On  summer  mornings,  when  the  blossoms  wake, 
And  part  with  little  hands  the  spiky  grass ; 
And  touching  with  his  cherry  lips  the  edge 
Of  these  bright  beakers,  drain  the  gathered  dew. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


THE    WREATH    OF    GRASSES. 

The  royal  rose — the  tulip's  glow — 

The  jasmine's  gold  are  fair  to  see ; 
But  while  the  graceful  grasses  grow, 

Oh,  gather  them  for  me  ! 

The  pansy's  gold  and  purple  wing, 

The  snowdrop's  smile  may  light  the  lea  ; 

But  while  the  fragrant  grasses  spring, 
My  wreath  of  them  shall  be  ! 

FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD. 


DIVINATION. 

When  a  daffodil  I  see 
Hanging  down  his  head  toward  me, 
Guess  I  may  what  I  may  be  : 
First,  I  shall  decline  my  head  ; 
Secondly,  I  shall  be  dead ; 
Lastly,  safely  buried. 

EGBERT  HEBRICK,  1591. 


GRASS. 

Is  all  grass  ?  Make  you  no  distinction  ?  No  ;  all  is  grass ;  or  if  you 
will  have  some  other  name,  be  it  so.  Once,  this  is  true,  that  all  flesh  is 
grass ;  and  if  that  glory  which  shines  so  much  in  your  eyes  must  have 
a  difference,  then  this  is  all  that  it  can  have — it  is  but  the  flower  of 
that  same  grass  ;  somewhat  above  the  common  grass  in  gayness,  a  little 


156  THEGARLAND. 

comelier  and  better  appareled  than  it,  but  partakes  of  its  frail  and  fad- 
ing nature.  It  hath  no  privilege  nor  immunity  that  way ;  yea,  of  the 
two  is  less  durable,  and  usually  shorter  lived  ;  at  the  last  it  decays  with 
it.  "  The  grass  withereth  ;  and  the  flower  thereof  fadeth  away." 

ARCHBISHOP  LEIGHTON,  1613-1684. 


DAFFODILS. 

I  wandered  lonely  as  a  cloud 

That  floats  on  high  o'er  vales  and  hills, 

When  all  at  once  I  saw  a  crowd, 

A  host  of  golden  daffodils, 

Beside  the  lake,  beneath  the  trees, 

Fluttering  and  dancing  in  the  breeze. 

Continuous  as. the  stars  that  shine 
And  twinkle  on  the  milky  way, 
They  stretched  in  never-ending  line 
Along  the  margin  of  a  bay  : 
Ten  thousand  saw  I  at  a  glance 
Tossing  their  heads  in  sprightly  dance. 

The  waves  beside  them  danced,  but  they 

Out-did  the  sparkling  waves  in  glee  : 

A  poet  could  not  but  be  gay, 

In  such  a  jocund  company  ; 

I  gazed — and  gazed — but  little  thought 

What  wealth  the  show  to  me  had  brought : 

For  oft,  when  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
In  vacant  or  in  pensive  mood, 
They  flash  upon  that  inward  eye, 
Which  is  the  bliss  of  solitude, 
And  then  my  heart  with  pleasure  fills, 
And  dances  with  the  daffodils. 

W.  WORDSWORTH. 


IX. 


GRONGAR    HILL. 

OILENT  nyinph,  with  curious  eye  ! 
^  Who,  the  purple  evening,  lie 
On  the  mountain's  lonely  van, 
Beyond  the  noise  of  busy  man : 
Painting  fair  the  form  of  things, 
While  the  yellow  linnet  sings ; 
Or  the  tuneful  nightingale, 
Charms  the  forest  with  her  tale ; 
Come,  with  all  thy  various  hues, 
Come,  and  aid  thy  sister  Muse ; 
Now,  while  Phoebus  riding  high, 
Gives  luster  to  the  land  and  sky ! 
Grongar  Hill  invites  my  song, 
Draw  the  landscape  bright  and  strong; 
Grongar,  in  whose  mossy  cells, 
Sweetly  musing  Quiet  dwells ; 


158  MEDLEY 


Grongar,  in  -whose  silent  shade, 

For  the  modest  Muses  made, 

So  oft  I  have,  the  evening  still, 

At  the  fountain  of  a  rill, 

Sat  upon  a  flowery  bed, 

With  my  hand  beneath  my  head, 

While  stray'd  my  eyes  o'er  Towy's  flood, 

Over  mead  and  over  wood, 

From  house  to  hoxise,  from  hill  to  hill. 

Till  Contemplation  had  her  fill. 
About  his  checker 'd  sides  I  wind, 

And  leave  his  brooks  and  meads  behind, 

And  groves  and  grottoes  where  I  lay, 

And  vistas  shooting  beams  of  day. 

Wide  and  wider  spreads  the  vale, 

As  circles  on  a  smooth  canal. 

The  mountains  round,  unhappy  fate ! 

Sooner  or  later,  of  all  height, 

Withdraw  their  summits  from  the  skies, 

And  lessen  as  the  others  rise. 

Still  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 

Adds  a  thousand  woods  and  meads  ; 

Still  it  widens,  widens  still, 

And  sinks  the  newly-risen  hill. 
Now  I  gain  the  mountain's  brow, 

What  a  landscape  lies  below ! 

No  clouds,  no  vapors  intervene, 

But  the  gay,  the  open  scene, 

Does  the  face  of  Nature  show 

In  all  the  hues  of  heaven's  bow ! 

And,  swelling  to  embrace  the  light, 
Spreads  around  beneath  the  sight. 

Old  castles  on  the  cliffs  arise, 
Proudly  tow'ring  in  the  skies ! 
Rushing  from  the  woods,  the  spires 
Seem  from  hence  ascending  fires ! 
Half  his  beams  Apollo  sheds 
On  the  yellow  mountain  heads ! 
Gilds  the  fleeces  of  the  flocks, 
And  glitters  on  the  broken  rocks ! 

Below  me  trees  unnumbered  rise, 
Beautiful  in  various  dyes : 
The  gloomy  pine,  the  poplar  blue, 
The  yellow  beach,  the  sable  yew, 
The  slender  fir  that  taper  grows, 


MEDLEY.  159 

The  sturdy  oak  with  broad-spread  boughs, 

And  beyond  the  purple  grove, 

Haunt  of  Phyllis,  queen  of  love ! 

Gaudy  as  the  opening  dawn 

Lies  a  long  and  level  lawn, 

On  which  a  dark  hill,  steep  and  high, 

Holds  and  charms  the  wandering  eye  ! 

Deep  are  his  feet  in  Towy's  flood, 

His  sides  are  cloth'd  with  waving  wood, 

And  ancient  towers  crown  his  brow, 

That  cast  an  awful  look  below ; 

Whose  ragged  walls  the  ivy  creeps, 

And  with  her  arms  from  falling  keeps  ; 

So  both,  a  safety  from  the  wind, 

On  mutual  dependence  find. 

'Tis  now  the  raven's  bleak  abode ; 

'Tis  now  th'  apartment  of  the  toad  ; 

And  there  the  fox  securely  feeds ; 

And  there  the  poisonous  adder  breeds ; 

Concealed  in  ruins,  moss,  and  weeds ;       • 

While,  ever  and  anon,  there  falls, 

Huge  heaps  of  hoary  molder'd  walls. 

Yet  Time  has  seen,  that  lifts  the  low, 

And  level  lays  the  lofty  brow — 

Has  seen  this  broken  pile  complete, 

Big  with  the  vanity  of  state ; 

But  transient  is  the  smile  of  Fate ! 

A  little  rule,  a  little  sway, 

A  sunbeam  in  a  winter's  day, 

Is  all  the  proud  and  mighty  have 

Between  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 

And  see  the  rivers  how  they  run, 
Through  woods  and  meads,  in  shade  and  sun, 
Sometimes  swift,  sometimes  slow — 
Wave  succeeding  wave,  they  go 
A  various  journey  to  the  deep, 
Like  human  life  to  endless  sleep! 
Thus  is  Nature's  vesture  wrought, 
To  instruct  our  wandering  thought ; 
Thus  she  dresses  green  and  gay, 
To  disperse  our  cares  away. 

Ever  charming,  ever  new, 
When  will  the  landscape  tire  the  view  ! 
The  fountain's  fall,  the  river's  flow, 
The  woody  valleys,  warm  and  low  ; 


160  MEDLEY. 


The  windy  summit,  wild  and  high, 
Roughly  rushing  on  the  sky  ! 
The  pleasant  seat,  the  ruin'd  tower, 
The  naked  rock,  the  shady  bower ; 
The  town  and  village,  dome  and  farm, 
Each  gives  each  a  double  charm, 
As  pearls  upon  an  Ethiop's  arm. 

See  on  the  mountain's  southern  side, 
Where  the  prospect  opens  wide, 
Where  the  evening  gilds  the  tide  ; 
How  close  and  small  the  hedges  lie  ! 
What  streaks  of  meadow  cross  the  eye ! 
A  step,  methinks,  may  pass  the  stream, 
So  little  distant  dangers  seem  ; 
So  we  mistake  the  Future's  face, 
Ey'd  through  Hope's  deluding  glass ; 
As  yon  summits  soft  and  fair, 
Clad  in  colors  of  the  air, 
Which  to  those  who  journey  near, 
Barren,  brown,  and  rough  appear ; 
Still  we  tread  the  same  coarse  way, 
The  present's  still  a  cloudy  day. 

0  may  I  with  myself  agree, 
And  never  covet  what  I  see ; 
Content  me  with  an  humble  shade, 
My  passions  tamed,  my  wishes  laid ; 
For  while  our  wishes  wildly  roll, 
We  banish  quiet  from  the  soul : 
'Tis  thus  the  busy  beat  the  air, 
And  misers  gather  wealth  and  care. 

Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high, 
As  on  the  mountain-turf  I  lie  ; 
While  the  wanton  Zephyr  sings, 
And  in  the  vale  perfumes  his  wings ; 
While  the  waters  murmur  deep ; 
While  the  shepherd  charms  his  sheep ; 
While  the  birds  unbounded  fly, 
And  with  music  fill  the  sky, 
Now,  ev'n  now,  my  joys  run  high. 

Be  full,  ye  courts  ;  be  great  who  will ; 
Search  for  Peace  with  all  your  skill : 
Open  wide  the  lofty  door, 
Seek  her  on  the  marble  floor. 
In  vain  you  search  ;  she  is  not  here ! 
In  vain  you  search  the  domes  of  Care  ! 


MEDLEY.  161 

Grass  and  flowers,  Quiet  treads, 
On  the  meads  and  mountain-heads, 
Along  with  Pleasure,  close  allied, 
Ever  by  each  other's  side ; 
And  often,  by  the  murmuring  rill, 
Hears  the  thrush,  while  all  is  still 
Within  the  groves  of  Grongar  Hill. 

JOHN  DYER,  1TOO-1758. 


LETTER  ON  CERTAIN  TREES. 

TO  THOMAS  PENNANT,  ESQ. 


In  the  court  of  Norton  farm-house,  a  manor  farm  to  the  northwest  of 
the  village,  on  the  White  Malms,  stood  within  these  twenty  years  a 
broad-leaved  elm,  or  wych  hazel,  ulmus  folio  latissimo  scabro,  of  Ray, 
which,  though  it  had  lost  a  considerable  leading  bough  in  the  great 
storm  in  the  year  1703,  equal  to  a  moderate  tree,  yet,  when  felled,  con- 
tained eight  loads  of  timber ;  and,  being  too  bulky  for  a  carriage,  was 
sawn  off  at  seven  feet  above  the  butt,  where  it  measured  near  eight  feet 
in  diameter.  This  elm  I  mention  to  show  to  what  a  bulk  planted  elms 
may  attain,  as  this  tree  must  certainly  have  been  such  from  its  sit- 
uation. 

In  the  center  of  the  village,  and  near  the  church,  is  a  square  piece  of 
ground,  surrounded  by  houses,  and  commonly  called  the  Plestor.  Sir 
Adam  Gurdon,  in  conjunction  with  his  wife  Constantia,  in  the  year  1271, 
granted  to  the  prior  and  convent  of  Selborne  all  his  right  and  claim  to  a 
certain  place,  placea,  called  La  Pleystow,  in  the  village  aforesaid,  "  in 
liberam,  puram,  et  perpetuam  elimosinam."  This  Pleystow,  locus  lu- 
dorum,  or  play-place,  is  a  level  area,  near  the  church,  of  about  forty- 
four  yards  by  thirty-six,  and  is  known  now  by  the  name  of  the  Plestor. 
It  continues  still — as  it  was  in  old  times — to  be  the  scene  of  recreation 
for  the  youths  and  children  of  the  neighborhood,  and  impresses  an  idea 
on  the  mind  that  this  village,  even  in  Saxon  times,  could  not  be  the  most 
abject  of  places,  when  the  inhabitants  thought  proper  to  assign  so  spa- 
cious a  spot  for  the  sports  and  amusements  of  its  young  people.  In  the 
midst  of  this  spot  stood  in  old  times  a  vast  oak,  with  a  short,  squat 
body,  and  huge  horizontal  arms  extending  almost  to  the  extremity  of  the 
area.  This  venerable  tree,  surrounded  with  stone  steps,  and  seats  above 
them,  was  the  delight  of  old  and  young,  and  a  place  of  much  resort  in 
summer  evenings,  where  the  former  sat  in  grave  debate,  while  the  latter 
frolicked  and  danced  before  them.  Long  might  it  have  stood  had  not 
the  amazing  tempest  in  1703  overturned  it  at  once,  to  the  infinite  regret 


1 62  MEDLEY. 

of  the  inhabitants  and  the  vicar,  who  bestowed  several  pounds  in  setting 
it  in  its  place  again ;  but  all  his  care  could  not  avail ;  the  tree  sprouted 
for  a  time,  then  withered  and  died.  This  oak  I  mention  to  show  to  what 
a  bulk  planted  oaks  also  may  arrive ;  and  planted  this  tree  must  cer- 
tainly have  been,  as  appears  from  what  is  known  concerning  the  an- 
tiquities of  the  village. 

On  the  Blackmoor  estate  there  is  a  small  wood,  called  Losel's,  of  a  few 
acres,  that  was  lately  furnished  with  a  set  of  oaks  of  a  peculiar  growth 
and  great  value ;  they  were  tall  and  taper  like  firs,  but,  standing  near 
together,  had  very  small  heads — only  a  little  brush,  without  any  large 
limbs.  About  twenty  years  ago  the  bridge  at  the  Toy,  near  Hampton 
Court,  being  much  decayed,  some  trees  were  wanted  for  the  repairs  that 
were  fifty  feet  long  without  a  bough,  and  would  measure  twelve  inches 
diameter  at  the  little  end.  Twenty  such  trees  did  a  purveyor  find  in 
this  little  wood,  with  this  advantage,  that  many  of  them  answered  the 
description  at  fifty  feet.  These  trees  were  sold  for  £20  a  piece. 

In  the  center  of  this  grove  there  stood  an  oak,  which,  though  shapely 
and  tall  on  the  whole,  bulged  out  into  a  large  excrescence  about  the  mid- 
dle of  the  stem.  On  this  a  pair  of  ravens  had  fixed  their  residence  for 
Buch  a  series  of  years,  that  the  oak  was  distinguished  by  the  title  of  the 
Raven-tree !  Many  were  the  attempts  of  the  neighboring  youths  to  get 
at  this  eyry ;  the  difficulty  whetted  their  inclinations,  and  each  was  am- 
bitious of  surmounting  the  arduous  task ;  but  when  they  arrived  at  the 
swelling,  it  jutted  out  so  in  their  way,  and  was  so  far  beyond  their 
grasp,  that  the  most  daring  lads  were  awed,  and  acknowledged  the  un- 
dertaking to  be  too  hazardous.  So  the  ravens  built  on,  nest  upon  nest, 
in  perfect  security,  till  the  fatal  day  arrived  in  which  the  wood  was  to 
be  leveled.  It  was  in  the  month  of  February,  when  these  birds  usually 
sit.  The  saw  was  applied  to  the  butt ;  the  wedges  were  inserted  into  the 
opening  ;  the  woods  echoed  to  the  heavy  blows  of  the  beetle  or  mallet : 
the  tree  nodded  to  the  fall ;  but  still  the  dam  sat  on.  At  last,  when  it 
gave  way,  the  bird  was  flung  from  her  nest;  and  though  her  parental 
affection  deserved  a  better  fate,  was  whipped  down  by  the  twigs,  which 
brought  her  dead  to  the  ground. 

GILBERT  WHITE,  1720-1793. 


A    SKETCH. 

The  rush-thatch'd  cottage  on  the  purple  moor, 
Where  ruddy  children  frolic  round  the  door ; 
The  moss-grown  antlers  of  the  aged  oak, 
The  shaggy  locks  that  fringe  the  colt  unbroke ; 
The  bearded  goat,  with  nimble  eyes  that  glare 
Through  the  long  tissue  of  his  hoary  hair, 


MEDLEY  1 63 

As  with  quick  foot  he  climbs  some  ruined  wall, 
And  crops  the  ivy  which  prevents  its  fall ; 
With  rural  charms  the  tranquil  mind  delight, 
And  form  a  picture  to  th'  admiring  sight. 

EBABMCS  DARWIN,  1T21-1S02. 


AN    ENGLISH    PEASANT'S    COTTAGE. 

The  prettiest  cottage  on  our  village  green  is  the  little  dwelling  of 
Dame  Wilson.  It  stands  in  a  corner  of  the  common,  where  the  hedge- 
rows go  curving  off  into  a  sort  of  bay  round  a  clear  bright  pond,  the 
earliest  haunt  of  the  swallow.  A  deep,  woody  green  lane,  such  as  Hob- 
bima  or  Ruysdael  might  have  painted — a  lane  that  hints  of  nightingales, 
forms  one  boundary  of  the  garden,  and  a  sloping  meadow  the  other; 
while  the  cottage  itself,  a  low,  thatched,  irregular  building,  backed  by  a 
blooming  orchard,  and  covered  with  honeysuckle  and  jessamine,  looks 
like  the  chosen  abode  of  snugness  and  comfort.  And  so  it  is. 

MAKV  R.  MITFOBD. 


RUTH. 

She  stood  breast  high  amid  the  corn, 
Clasp'd  by  the  golden  light  of  morn, 
Like  the  sweetheart  of  the  sun, 
Who  many  a  glowing  kiss  had  won. 

On  her  cheek  an  autumn  flush 
Deeply  ripened :  such  a  blush, 
In  the  midst  of  brown  was  born, 
Like  red  poppies  grown  with  corn. 

Round  her  eyes  her  tresses  fell, 
Which  were  blackest  none  could  tell ; 
But  long  lashes  vail'd  a  light 
That  had  else  been  all  too  bright. 

And  her  hat  with  shady  brim, 
Made  her  tressy  forehead  dim  : 
Thus  she  stood  amid  the  stooks, 
Praising  God  with  sweetest  looks. 

Sure  I  said,  Heav'n  did  not  mean 
Where  I  reap  thou  shouldst  but  glean  ; 
Lay  thy  sheaf  adown  and  come — 
Share  my  harvest  and  my  home. 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


164  MEDLEY. 


SIMPLE    PLEASURES. 

Say,  why  does  man,  while  to  his  opening  sight 
Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  pleasures  flow, 
And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, 
Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
Why  clasp  the  syren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath, 
Though  fraught  with  ruin,  infamy,  and  death  ! 
Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  clings, 
Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs ; 
Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from  strife 
The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 
No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure ; 
The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure ; 
But  the  sweet  potion  he  was  wont  to  sip 
Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 

H.  K.  WHITE,  1T85-1806. 


FROM    "THE    COMPLETE    ANGLER." 

Ven.  On  my  word,  master,  this  is  a  gallant  trout ;  what  shall  we  do 
with  him  ? 

Pise.  Marry,  e'en  eat  him  to  supper  :  we'll  go  to  my  hostess,  from 
whence  we  came ;  she  told  me,  as  I  was  going  out  of  door,  that  my 
brother  Peter,  a  good  angler,  and  a  cheerful  companion,  had  sent  word 
he  would  lodge  there  to-night,  and  bring  a  friend  with  him.  My  hostess 
has  two  beds,  and  I  know  you  and  I  may  have  the  best.  We'll  rejoice 
with  my  brother  Peter  and  his  friend,  tell  tales,  or  sing  ballads,  or  make 
a  catch,  or  find  some  harmless  sport  to  content  us,  and  pass  away  a  little 
time  without  offense  to  God  or  man. 

Ven.  A  match,  good  master  :  let's  go  to  that  house,  for  the  linen 
looks  white,  and  smells  of  lavender,  and  I  long  to  lie  in  a  pair  of  sheets 
that  smell  so.  Let's  be  going,  good  master,  for  I  am  hungry  again  with 
fishing. 

Pise.  Nay,  stay  a  little,  good  scholar ;  I  caught  my  last  trout  with  a 
worm.  Now  I  will  put  on  a  minnow,  and  try  a  quarter  of  an  hour  about 
yonder  trees  for  another,  and  so  walk  toward  our  lodging.  Look  you, 
scholar,  thereabout  we  shall  have  a  bite  presently,  or  not  at  all.  Have 
with  you,  sir,  o'  my  word  I  have  hold  of  him.  Oh,  it  is  a  great  logger- 


MEDLEY.  165 

headed  chub  ;  come,  hang  him  upon  that  willow  twig,  and  let's  be  going. 
But  turn  out  of  the  way  a  little,  good  scholar,  toward  yonder  high 
honeysuckle  hedge ;  there  we'll  sit  and  sing  while  this  shower  falls  so 
gently  upon  the  teeming  earth,  and  gives  yet  a  sweeter  smell  to  the  lovely 
flowers  that  adorn  these  verdant  meadows. 

Look !  under  that  broad  beach-tree  I  sat  down  when  I  was  last  this 
way  a  fishing,  and  the  birds  in  the  adjoining  grove  seemed  to  have  a 
friendly  contention  with  an  echo,  whose  dead  voice  seemed  to  live  in  a 
hollow  tree,  near  to  the  brow  of  that  primrose  hill ;  there  I  sat  viewing 
the  silver  streams  glide  silently  toward  their  center,  the  tempestuous 
sea,  yet  sometimes  opposed  by  rugged  roots  and  pebble-stones,  which 
broke  their  waves  and  turned  them  into  foam ;  and  sometimes  I  beguiled 
time  by  viewing  the  harmless  lambs — some  leaping  securely  in  the  cool 
shade,  while  others  sported  themselves  in  the  cheerful  sun ;  and  saw 
others  craving  comfort  from  the  swollen  udders  of  their  bleating  dams. 
As  I  thus  sat,  these  and  other  sights  had  so  fully  possessed  my  soul  with 
content,  that  I  thought,  as  the  poet  has  happily  expressed  it, 

"  I  was  for  that  time  lifted  above  earth, 
And  possess'd  joys  not  promis'd  in  my  birth." 

As  I  left  this  place,  and  entered  into  the  next  field,  a  second  pleasure 
entertained  me ;  it  was  a  handsome  milk-maid,  that  had  not  yet  attained 
so  much  age  and  wisdom  as  to  load  her  mind  with  any  fears  of  many 
things  that  will  never  be,  as  too  many  men  too  often  do ;  but  she  cast 
away  all  care,  and  sung  like  a  nightingale :  her  voice  was  good,  and  the 
ditty  fitted  for  it ;  it  was  that  smooth  song  which  was  made  by  Kit 
Marlow,  now  at  least  fifty  years  ago;  and  the  milk-maid's  mother  sung 
an  answer  to  it,  which  was  made  by  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  in  his  younger 
days. 

They  were  old-fashioned  poetry,  but  choicely  good— I  think  much  bet- 
ter than  the  strong  lines  that  are  now  in  fashion  in  this  critical  age. 
Look  yonder !  on  my  word,  yonder  they  both  be,  a  milking  again.  I 
will  give  her  the  chub,  and  persuade  them  to  sing  those  two  songs 
to  us. 

God  speed  you,  good  woman !  I  have  been  a  fishing,  and  am  going 
to  Bleak-Hall  to  my  bed,  and  having  caught  more  fish  than  will  sup  my- 
self and  my  friend,  I  will  bestow  this  upon  you  and  your  daughter,  for  I 
use  to  sell  none. 

Milk-  W.  Marry,  God  requite  you,  sir,  and  we'll  eat  it  cheerfully ; 
and  if  you  come  this  way  a  fishing  two  months  hence,  o'  grace  of  God, 
I'll  give  you  a  syllabub  of  new  verjuice,  in  a  new-made  hay-cock  for  it, 
and  my  Maudlin  shall  sing  you  one  of  her  best  ballads ;  for  she  and  I 
both  love  all  anglers,  they  be  such  honest,  civil,  quiet  men.  In  the 
mean  time,  will  you  drink  a  draught  of  red  cow's  milk  ?  you  shall  have 
it  freely. 


166  MEDLEY. 

Pise.  No,  I  thank  you ;  but  I  pray  do  us  a  courtesy  that  shall  stand 
you  and  your  daughter  in  nothing,  and  yet  we  will  think  ourselves  still 
something  in  your  debt :  it  is  but  to  sing  us  a  song  that  was  sung  by 
your  daughter  when  I  last  passed  over  this  meadow  about  eight  or  nine 
days  since. 

Milk-M.  What  song  was  it,  I  pray  ?  Was  it,  "  Come,  Shepherds, 
Deck  your  Heads  ?"  or  "  As  at  Noon  Dulcina  Rested  ?"  or  "  Phillida, 
Flout  me  ?"  or  "  Chevy  Chase  ?"  or  "  Johnny  Armstrong  ?"  or  "  Troy 
Town  ?" 

Pise.  It  is  none  of  those ;  it  is  a  song  that  your  daughter  sung  the 
first  part,  and  you  sung  the  answer  to  it. 

Milk-  W.  0, 1  know  it  now ;  I  learned  the  first  part  in  my  golden 
age,  when  I  was  about  the  age  of  my  poor  daughter ;  and  the  latter 
part — which  indeed  fits  me  best  now — but  two  or  three  years  ago,  when 
the  cares  of  the  world  began  to  take  hold  of  me ;  but  you  shall,  God 
willing,  hear  them  both,  and  sung  as  well  as  we  can,  for  we  both  love 
anglers.  Come,  Maudlin,  sing  the  first  part  to  the  gentlemen  with  a 
merry  heart,  and  I'll  sing  the  second  when  you  have  done : 


THE    MILK-MAID'S    SONG. 

THE   SHEPHEKD    TO   HIS   LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove, 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dale  and  field, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yield. 

There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 

There  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle, 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 

A  gown  made  of  the  fairest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold ; 

A  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs ; 


MEDLEY.  167 

And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing, 
For  thy  delight  each  May  morning : 
If  these  delights  thy  mind  may  move. 
Then  live  with  me,  and  be  my  love. 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOW,  1593. 

Ven.  Trust  me,  master,  it  is  a  choice  song,  and  sweetly  sung  by 
honest  Maudlin.  I  now  see  it  was  not  without  cause  that  our  good 
Queen  Elizabeth  did  so  often  wish  herself  a  milk-maid  all  the  month  of 
May,  because  they  are  not  troubled  with  fears  and  cares,  but  sing 
sweetly  all  the  day,  and  sleep  securely  all  the  night ;  and  without  doubt 
honest,  innocent,  pretty  Maudlin  does  so.  I'll  bestow  Sir  Thomas  Over- 
bury's  mild-maid's  wish  upon  her,  "  That  she  may  die  in  the  spring,  and, 
being  dead,  may  have  good  store  of  flowers  stuck  round  about  her  wind- 
ing-sheet." 


THE    MILK-MAID'S    MOTHER'S    ANSWER. 


If  that  the  world  and  love  were  young, 
And  truth  in  every  shepherd's  tongue, 
These  pretty  pleasures  might  me  move, 
To  live  with  thee  and  be  thy  love. 

But  time  drives  flocks  from  field  to  fold, 
When  rivers  rage,  and  rocks  grow  cold, 
And  Philomel  becometh  dumb, 
And  all  complain  of  cares  to  come. 

The  flowers  do  fade,  and  wanton  fields 
To  wayward  winter  reckoning  yield  ; 
A  honey  tongue,  a  heart  of  gall, 
Is  fancy's  spring,  but  sorrow's  fall. 

Thy  gowns,  thy  shoes,  thy  beds  of  roses, 
Thy  cap,  thy  kirtle,  and  thy  posies 
Soon  break,  soon  wither,  soon  forgotten— 
In  folly  ripe,  in  reason  rotten. 

Thy  belt  of  straw,  and  ivy  buds, 
Thy  coral  clasps,  and  amber  studs ; 
All  these  in  me  no  means  can  move 
To  come  to  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 


168  MEDLEY. 

But  could  youth  last,  and  love  still  breed, 
Had  joys  no  date,  nor  age  no  need, 
Then  those  delights  my  mind  might  move 
To  live  with  thee,  and  be  thy  love. 

SIR  WALTER  KALEIGH,  1552-1618. 

Pise.  Well  sung,  good  woman ;  I  thank  you.    I'll  give  you  another 
dish  of  fish  one  of  these  days,  and  then  beg  another  song  of  you. 

IZAAK  WALTON,  1593-1688. 


THE    SOLITARY    REAPER. 

Behold  her  single  in  the  field, 
Yon  solitary  Highland  lass ! 
Reaping  and  singing  by  herself; 
Stop  here,  or  gently  pass ! 
Alone  she  cuts  and  binds  the  grain, 
And  sings  a  melancholy  strain ; 

0  listen  !  for  the  vale  profound 
Is  overflowing  with  the  sound. 

No  nightingale  did  ever  chaunt 

So  sweetly  to  reposing  bands 

Of  travelers  in  some  shady  haunt, 

Among  Arabian  lands. 

No  sweeter  voice  was  ever  heard 

In  spring-time  from  the  cuckoo-bird — 

Breaking  the  silence  of  the  seas, 

Among  the  farthest  Hebrides. 

Will  no  one  tell  me  what  she  sings  ? 
Perhaps  the  plaintive  numbers  flow 
For  old,  unhappy,  far-off  things, 
And  battles  long  ago ; 
Or  is  it  some  more  humble  lay, 
Familiar  matter  of  to-day  ? 
Some  natural  sorrow,  loss,  or  pain, 
That  has  been,  and  may  be  again  ? 

Whate'er  the  theme,  the  maiden  sang 
As  if  her  song  could  have  no  ending  ; 

1  saw  her  singing  at  her  work, 
And  o'er  the  sickle  bending ; 


MEDLEY.  169 

I  listened— motionless  and  still, 
And  as  I  mounted  up  the  hill, 
The  music  in  my  heart  I  bore, 
Long  after  it  was  heard  no  more. 

W.  WOBDSWOETH. 


THE    HUSBANDMAN. 

Earth  of  man  the  bounteous  mother, 
Feeds  him  still  with  corn  and  wine ; 

He  who  best  would  aid  a  brother, 
Shares  with  him  these  gifts  divine. 

Many  a  power  within  her  bosom, 
Noiseless,  hidden,  works  beneath ; 

Hence  are  seed,  and  leaf,  and  blossom, 
Golden  ear  and  cluster'd  wreath. 

These  to  swell  with  strength  and  beauty 

Is  the  royal  task  of  man ; 
Man's  a  king;  his  throne  is  duty, 

Since  his  work  on  earth  began. 

Bud  and  harvest,  bloom  and  vintage — 
These,  like  man,  are  fruits  of  earth  ; 

Stamp'd  in  clay,  a  heavenly  vintage, 
All  from  dust  receive  their  birth. 

Barn  and  mill,  and  wine- vat's  treasures, 
Earthly  goods  for  earthly  lives ; 

These  are  Nature's  ancient  pleasures — 
These  her  child  from  her  derives. 

What  the  dream,  but  vain  rebelling, 
If  from  earth  we  sought  to  flee  ? 

'Tis  our  stored  and  ample  dwelling — 
'Tis  from  it  the  skies  we  see. 

Wind  and  frost,  and  hour  and  season, 
Land  and  water,  sun  and  shade, 

Work  with  these,  as  bids  thy  reason, 
For  they  work  thy  toil  to  aid. 
8 


170  MEDLEY. 

Sow  thy  seed,  and  reap  in  gladness  ! 

Man  himself  is  all  a  seed  ; 
Hope  and  hardship,  joy  and  sadness — 

Slow  the  plant  to  ripeness  lead. 

JOHN  STERLING,  1844. 


X. 


THE    GARDEN. 

FBOM    "  THK    HKIUIAT.." 

A  ^MONG  the  manifold  creatures  of  God  that  have  in  all  ages  diversely 
j\_  entertained  many  excellent  wits,  and  drawne  them  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  the  Divine  Wisdome,  none  have  provoked  men's  studies  more,  or 
satisfied  their  desires  so  much,  as  plants  have  done,  and  that  upon  just 
and  worthy  causes ;  for  what  greater  delight  is  there  than  to  behold  the 
earth  appareled  with  plants  as  with  a  robe  of  embroidered  worke,  set 
with  orient  pearles,  and  garnished  with  great  diversity  of  rare  and  costly 
jewels.  But  the  principal  delighte  is  in  the  minde,  singularly  enriched 
with  the  knowledge  of  these  visible  things,  setting  forth  to  us  the  in- 
visible wisdome  and  admirable  workmanship  of  Almighty  God ! 

JOHN  GEBABDB,  1545-1607. 


OF    GARDENS. 

The  earth  is  the  garden  of  nature,  and  each  fruitful  country  a  Para- 
dise. The  Turks,  who  pass  their  days  in  gardens  here,  will  have  gar- 
dens also  hereafter,  and  delighting  in  flowers  on  earth,  must  have  lilies 
and  roses  in  heaven.  The  delightful  world  comes  after  death,  and  Par- 


172  THEGARDEN. 

adise  succeeds  the  grave.  The  verdant  state  of  things  is  the  symbol  of 
the  resurrection ;  and  to  nourish  in  the  state  of  glory,  we  must  first  be 
sown  in  corruption. 

SIR  THOMAS  BROWNE,  1605-1682. 


A    GARDEN. 

Where  does  the  Wisdom  and  the  Power  Divine 

In  a  more  bright  and  sweet  reflection  shine  ? 

Where  do  we  finer  strokes  and  colors  see, 

Of  the  Creator's  real  Poetry, 

Than  when  we  with  attention  look 

Upon  the  third  day's  volume  of  the  Book  ? 

If  we  could  open  and  intend  our  eye, 

We  all,  like  Moses,  should  espy 

Even  in  a  bush  the  radiant  Deity. 

But  we  despise  these,  His  inferior  ways 

(Though  no  less  full  of  miracle  and  praise), 

Upon  the  flowers  of  Heaven  we  gaze  ; 

The  stars  of  earth  no  wonder  in  us  raise. 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY,  1G18-1667. 


THE    GARDEN    OF     ALCINOUS. 


Close  to  the  gates  a  spacious  garden  lies, 
From  storms  defended  and  inclement  skies  : 
Four  acres  was  th'  allotted  space  of  ground, 
Fenced  with  a  green  inclosure  all  around, 
Tall  thriving  trees  confessed  the  fruitful  mold ; 
The  redd'ning  apple  ripens  here  to  gold. 
Here  the  blue  fig  with  luscious  juice  o'erflows, 
With  deeper  red  the  full  pomegranate  glows  ; 
The  branch  here  bends  beneath  the  weighty  pear, 
And  verdant  olives  flourish  round  the  year. 
The  balmy  spirit  of  the  western  gale 
Eternal  breathes  on  fruits  untaught  to  fail : 
Each  dropping  pear  a  following  pear  supplies, 
On  apples  apples,  figs  on  figs  arise  ; 
The  same  mild  season  gives  the  blooms  to  blow, 
The  buds  to  harden,  and  the  fruits  to  grow. 
Here  ordered  vines  in  equal  ranks  appear, 
With  all  th'  united  labors  of  the  year  ; 


THE      GARDEN*.  173 

Some  to  unload  the  fertile  brandies  run, 
Some  dry  the  black'ning  clusters  in  the  sun, 
Others  to  tread  ^he  liquid  harvest  join, 
The  groaning  presses  foam  with  floods  of  wine. 
Here  are  the  vines  in  early  flower  descried, 
Here  grapes  discolor'd  on  the  sunny  side, 
And  there  in  autumn's  richest  purple  dyed. 
Beds  of  all  various  herbs,  forever  green, 
In  beauteous  order  terminate  the  scene. 
Two  plenteous  fountains  the  whole  prospect  crown'd- 
This  through  the  gardens  leads  its  streams  around, 
Visits  each  plant  and  waters  all  the  ground  ; 
While  that  in  pipes  beneath  the  palace  flows, 
And  thence  its  current  on  the  town  bestows ; 
To  various  use  their  various  streams  they  bring, 

The  people  one,  and  one  supplies  the  king. 

Translation  of  POPE. 


THE    GARDEN    OF    EDEN. 

In  this  pleasant  soil, 

His  far  more  pleasant  garden,  God  ordain'd  ; 
Out  of  the  fertile  ground  he  caus'd  to  grow 
All  trees  of  noblest  kind  for  sight,  smell,  taste, 
And  all  amid  them  stood  the  Tree  of  Life, 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold ;  and  next  to  life 
"Our  death,  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  grew  fast  by, 
Knowledge  of  good  bought  dear  by  knowing  ill. 
Southward  through  Eden  went  a  river  large, 
Nor  chang'd  his  course,  but  through  the  shaggy  hill 
Pass'd  underneath  ingulf  d  ;  for  God  had  thrown 
That  mountain  as  his  garden  mold,  high  rais'd 
Upon  the  rapid  current,  which  through  veins 
Of  porous  earth,  with  kindly  thirst  up  drawn, 
Rose  a  fresh  fountain,  and  with  many  a  rill 
Water'd  the  garden  ;  thence  united  fell 
Down  the  steep  glade,  and  met  the  nether  flood, 
Which  from  his  darksome  passage  now  appears, 
And  now  divided  into  four  main  streams, 
Runs  diverse,  wand'ring  many  a  famous  realm 
And  country,  whereof  here  needs  no  account ; 
But  rather  to  tell  how,  if  Art  could  tell, 
How  from  that  sapphire  fount  the  crisped  brooks, 
Rolling  on  orient  pearl  and  sands  of  gold, 


174  THE      GARDEN. 

With  mazy  error  under  pendent  shades 

Ran  nectar,  visiting  each  plant,  and  fed 

Flow'rs  worthy  of  Paradise,  which  not  nice  Art 

In  beds  and  curious  knot,  but  Nature  boon 

Pour'd  forth  profuse  on  hill,  and  dale,  and  plain, 

Both  where  the  morning  sun  first  warmly  smote 

The  open  field,  and  where  the  unpierc'd  shade 

Imbrown'd  the  noontide  bow'rs.     Thus  was  this  place 

A  happy  rural  seat  of  various  views  ; 

Groves  whose  rich  trees  wept  odorous  gums  and  balm, 

Others  whose  fruit,  burnish'd  with  golden  rind, 

Hung  amiable,  Hesperian  fables  true, 

If  true,  here  only,  and  of  delicious  taste. 

Betwixt  them  lawns,  or  level  downs  and  flocks 

Grazing  the  tender  herb,  were  interpos'd, 

Or  palmy  hillock  ;  or  the  flow'ry  lap 

Of  some  irriguous  valley  spread  her  store — 

Flow'rs  of  all  hue,  and  without  thorn  the  rose. 

Another  side,  umbrageous  grots  and  caves 

Of  cool  recess,  o'er  which  the  mantling  vine 

Lays  forth  her  purple  grape,  and  gently  creeps 

Luxuriant ;  meanwhile  murm'ring  waters  fall 

Down  the  slope  hills,  dispers'd,  or  in  a  lake 

That  to  the  fringed  bank  with  myrtle  crown'd, 

Her  crystal  mirror  holds,  unite  their  streams. 

The  birds  their  choir  apply  ;  airs,  vernal  airs, 

Breathing  the  smell  of  field  and  grove,  attune 

The  trembling  leaves,  while  universal  Pan, 

Knit  with  the  Graces  and  the  Hours,  in  dance, 

Led  on  th'  eternal  spring. 

JOHN  MILTON,  1608-1674. 


OF     GARDENS. 

God  Almighty  first  planted  a  garden ;  and,  indeed,  it  is  the  purest  of 
human  pleasures ;  it  is  the  greatest  refreshment  to  the  spirits  of  man  ; 
without  which  buildings  and  palaces  are  but  gross  handiwork  ;  and  as 
men  shall  ever  see,  that,  when  ages  grow  to  civility  and  elegancy,  men 
come  to  build  stately,  sooner  than  to  garden  finely,  as  if  gardening  were 
the  greater  perfection.  I  do  hold  it  in  the  royal  ordering  of  gardens, 
there  ought  to  be  gardens  for  all  the  months  in  the  year,  in  which,  sev- 
erally, things  of  beauty  may  be  in  season. 

******** 

And  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  far  sweeter  in  the  air  (where  it 


THE      GARDEN.  175 

comes  and  goes,  like  the  warbling  of  music)  than  in  the  hand,  therefore 
nothing  is  more  fit  for  that  delight  than  to  know  what  be  the  flowers  and 
plants  that  do  best  perfume  the  air.  Roses,  damask  and  red,  are  fast 
flowers  of  their  smells,  so  that  you  may  walk  by  a  whole  row  of  them,  and 
find  nothing  of  their  sweetness;  yea,  though  it  be  in  a  morning's  dew. 
Bays,  likewise,  yield  no  smell  as  they  grow  ;  rosemary  little,  nor  sweet 
marjoram ;  that  which  above  all  others  yields  the  sweetest  smell  in  the 
air  is  the  violet,  which  comes  twice  a  year,  about  the  middle  of  April, 
and  about  Bartholomew- tide.  Next  to  that  is  the  musk  rose ;  then  the 
strawberry  leaves  dying,  with  a  most  excellent  cordial  smell ;  then  the 
flower  of  the  vines — it  is  a  little  dust,  like  the  dust  of  a  bent,  which 
grows  upon  the  cluster  in  the  first  coming  forth ;  then  sweet-brier,  then 
wall-flowers,  which  are  very  delightful  to  be  set  under  a  parlor  or  lower 
chamber  window;  then  pinks  and  gilliflowers,  especially  the  matted 
pink  and  clove  gilliflowers ;  then  the  honeysuckles,  so  that  they  be  some- 
what afar  off.  Of  bean-flowers  I  speak  not,  because  they  are  field-flow- 
ers ;  but  those  which  perfume  the  air  most  delightfully,  not  passed  by 
as  the  rest,  but  being  trodden  upon  and  crushed,  are  three,  that  is,  bur- 
net,  wild  thyme,  and  water-mints ;  therefore  you  are  to  set  whole  alleys 
of  them,  to  have  the  pleasure  when  you  walk  or  tread. 

For  gardens  (speaking  of  those  which  are  indeed  prince-like,  as  we 
have  done  of  buildings),  the  contents  ought  not  well  to  be  under  thirty 
acres  of  ground,  and  to  be  divided  into  three  parts  :  a  green  in  the  en- 
trance, a  heath  or  desert  in  the  going  forth,  and  the  main  garden  in 
the  midst,  besides  alleys  on  both  sides ;  and  I  like  well  that  four  acres 
of  ground  be  assigned  to  the  green,  six  to  the  heath,  four  and  four  to 
either  side,  and  twelve  to  the  main  garden.  The  green  hath  two  pleas- 
ures :  the  one,  because  nothing  is  more  pleasant  to  the  eye  than  green 
grass  kept  finely  shorn ;  the  other,  because  it  will  give  you  a  fair  alley 
in  the  midst,  by  which  you  may  go  in  front  upon  a  stately  hedge,  which 
is  to  inclose  the  garden  ;  but  because  the  alley  will  be  long,  and,  in  great 
heat  of  the  year,  or  day,  you  ought  not  to  leave  the  shade  in  the  garden 
by  going  in  the  sun  through  the  green,  therefore  you  are,  of  either 
side  the  green,  to  plant  a  covert  alley  upon  carpenter's  work,  about 
twelve  foot  in  height,  by  which  you  may  go  in  shade  into  the  garden. 
As  for  the  making  of  knots  or  figures  with  divers  colored  earths,  that 
they  may  lie  under  the  windows  of  the  house  on  that  side  which  the  gar- 
den stands,  they  be  but  toys ;  you  may  see  as  good  sights  many  times  in 

tarts. 

LORD  BACON,  1661-1624. 

GARDENING. 

For  my  own  part,  as  the  country  life,  and  this  part  of  it  more  partic- 
ularly (namely,  gardening),  were  the  inclination  of  my  youth  itself,  so 
they  are  the  pleasure  of  my  age;  and  I  can  truly  s-iy.  that  among  many 


176  THE      GARDEN. 

great  employments  that  have  fallen  to  my  share,  I  have  never  asked  or 
sought  for  any  one  of  them,  but  often  endeavored  to  escape  from  them, 
into  the  ease  and  freedom  of  a  private  scene,  where  a  man  may  go  his 
own  way  and  his  own  pace  in  the  common  paths  or  circles  of  life. 

The  measure  of  choosing  well  is,  whether  a  man  likes  what  he  has 
chosen,  which,  I  thank  God,  has  befallen  me ;  and  though  among  the 
follies  of  my  life  building  and  planting  have  not  been  the  least,  and  have 
cost  me  more  than  I  have  the  confidence  to  own,  yet  they  have  been  fully 
recompensed  by  the  sweetness  and  satisfaction  of  this  retreat,  where, 
since  my  resolution  taken  of  never  entering  again  into  any  public  em- 
ployments, I  have  passed  five  years  without  ever  going  once  to  town, 
though  I  am  almost  in  sight  of  it,  and  have  a  house  there  always  ready 
to  receive  me.  Nor  has  this  been  any  sort  of  affectation,  as  some  have 
thought  it,  but  a  mere  want  of  desire  or  humor  to  make  so  small  a  re- 
move. 

SHI  WILLIAM  TEMPLE, 


FLOWERS    AND    ART. 


VTUKAL1ST.' 


No  portion  of  creation  has  been  resorted  to  by  mankind  with  more  suc- 
cess for  the  ornament  and  decoration  of  their  labors  than  the  vegetable 
world.  The  rites,  emblems,  and  mysteries  of  religion ;  national  achieve- 
ments, eccentric  masks,  and  the  capricious  visions  of  fancy,  have  been 
wrought  by  the  hand  of  the  sculptor  on  the  temple,  the  altar,  or  the  tomb ; 
but  plants,  their  foliage,  flowers,  or  fruits,  as  the  most  graceful,  varied, 
and  pleasing  objects  that  meet  our  view,  have  been  more  universally  the 
object  of  design,  and  have  supplied  the  most  beautiful,  and  perhaps  the 
earliest,  embellishments  of  art.  The  pomegranate,  the  almond,  and  flow- 
ers were  selected,  even  in  the  wilderness  by  divine  appointment,  to  give 
form  to  the  sacred  utensils ;  the  rewards  of  merit,  the  wreath  of  the 
victor,  were  arboraceous.  In  later  periods  the  acanthus,  the  ivy,  the 
lotus,  the  vine,  the  palm,  and  the  oak  flourished  under  the  chisel  or  in 
the  loom  of  the  artist ;  and  in  modern  days  the  vegetable  world  affords 
the  almost  exclusive  decorations  of  ingenuity  and  art.  The  cultivation 
of  flowers  is,  of  all  the  amusements  of  mankind,  the  one  to  be  selected 
and  approved  as  the  most  innocent  in  itself,  and  most  perfectly  devoid 
of  injury  or  annoyance  to  others ;  the  employment  is  not  only  conducive 
to  health  and  peace  of  mind,  but  probably  more  good- will  has  arisen 
and  friendships  been  founded  by  the  intercourse  and  communication 
connected  with  this  pursuit  than  from  any  other  whatsoever ;  the  pleas- 
ures, the  ecstasies  of  the  horticulturist  are  harmless  and  pure  ;  a  streak, 
a  tint,  a  shade,  becomes  his  triumph,  which,  though  often  obtained  by 
chance,  are  secured  alone  by  morning  care,  by  evening  caution,  and 


THE      GARDEN.  1 77 

the  vigilance  of  days — an  employ  which  in  its  various  grades  excludes 
neither  the  opulent  nor  the  indigent,  and,  teeming  with  boundless  va- 
riety, affords  an  unceasing  excitement  to  emulation,  without  contempt 

or  ill-will. 

J.  L  KNAPP. 


CHINESE    GARDENING. 

What  is  it  that  we  seek  in  the  possession  of  a  pleasure -garden  ?  The 
art  of  laying  out  gardens  consists  in  an  endeavor  to  combine  cheerful- 
ness of  aspect,  luxuriance  of  growth,  shade,  solitude,  and  repose  in  such 
a  manner  that  the  senses  may  be  deluded  by  an  imitation  of  rural  na- 
ture. Diversity,  which  is  the  main  advantage  of  free  landscape,  must 
therefore  be  sought  in  a  judicious  choice  of  soil,  an  alternation  of  chains 
of  hills  and  valleys,  gorges,  brooks,  and  lakes  covered  with  aquatic 
plants.  Symmetry  is  wearying,  and  ennui  and  disgust  will  soon  be  ex- 
cited in  a  garden  where  every  part  betrays  constraint  and  art. 

LIETJ-TSCHEN,  an  ancient  Chinese  writer — taken  from  HUMBOLDT'S  "Cosmos." 


EMPLOYMENT. 

If  as  a  flower  doth  spread  and  die, 

Thou  wouldst  extend  me  to  some  good, 
Before  I  were  by  frost's  extremity, 
Nipt  in  the  bud — 

The  sweetness  and  the  praise  were  thine  ; 

But  the  extension  and  the  room 
Which  in  thy  garland  I  should  fill,  were  mine 
At  thy  great  doom. 

For  as  thou  dost  impart  thy  grace, 

The  greater  shall  our  glory  be  ; 
The  measure  of  our  joys  is  in  this  place, 
The  stuff  with  thee. 

Let  me  not  languish  then,  and  send 

A  life  as  barren  to  thy  praise 
As  is  the  dust,  to  which  that  life  doth  tend, 
But  with  delays. 

All  things  are  busy ;  only  I 

Neither  bring  honey  with  the  bees, 
Nor  flowers  to  make  that,  nor  the  husbandry 
To  water  these. 
8- 


178  THE      GARDEN. 

I  am  no  link  of  thy  great  chain, 

But  all  my  company  is  as  a  weed  : 
Lord  place  me  in  thy  concert — give  one  strain 
To  my  poor  reed. 

GEORGE  HERBERT,  1593-1632. 


THE    GARDEN. 

When  the  light  flourish  of  the  blue-bird  sounds, 

And  the  south  wind  comes  blandly ;  when  the  sky 

Is  soft  in  delicate  blue,  with  melting  pearl 

Spotting  its  bosom,  all  proclaiming  Spring, 

Oh  with  what  joy  the  garden  spot  we  greet, 

Wakening  from  wintry  slumbers.     As  we  tread 

The  branching  walks,  within  its  hollow'd  nook 

We  see  the  violet  by  some  lingering  flake 

Of  melting  snow,  its  sweet  eye  lifting  up, 

As  welcoming  our  presence  ;  o'er  our  heads 

The  fruit-tree  buds  are  swelling,  and  we  hail 

Our  grateful  task  of  molding  into  form 

The  waste  around  us.     The  quick  delving  spade 

Upturns  the  fresh  and  odorous  earth ;  the  rake 

Smooths  the  plump  bed,  and  in  their  furrow'd  grav< 

We  drop  the  seed.     The  robin  stops  his  work 

Upon  the  apple- bough,  and  flutters  down 

Stealing,  with  oft  check'd  and  uplifted  foot 

And  watchful  gaze  bent  quickly  either  side, 

Toward  the  fall'n  wealth  of  food  around  the  mouth 

Of  the  light  paper  pouch  upon  the  earth. 

But,  fearful  of  our  motions,  off  he  flies, 

And  stoops  upon  the  grub  the  spade  has  thrown 

Loose  from  its  den  beside  the  wounded  root. 

Days  pass  along.     The  pattering  shower  falls  down 

And  then  the  warming  sunshine.     Tiny  clifts 

Tell  that  the  seed  has  turn'd  itself,  and  now 

Is  pushing  up  its  stem.     The  verdant  pea 

Looks  out ;  the  twin-leaf  d  scallop'd  radish  shows 

Sprinkles  of  green.     The  sturdy  bean  displays 

Its  jaws  distended  wide  and  slightly  tongued. 

The  down}  cucumber  is  seen ;  the  corn 

Upshoots  its  close-wrapp'd  spike,  and  on  its  mound 

The  young  potato  sets  its  tawny  ear. 

Meanwhile  the  fruit-trees  gloriously  have  broke 


THE      GARDEN.  179 

Into  a  flush  of  beauty,  and  the  grape, 
Casting  aside  in  peels  its  shrivel'd  skin, 
Shows  its  soft  furzy  leaf  of  delicate  pink, 
And  the  thick  midge-like  blossoms  round  diffuse 
A  strong,  delicious  fragrance.     Soon  along 
The  trellis  stretch  the  tendrils,  sharply  prong'd, 
Clinging  tenacious  with  their  winding  rings, 
And  sending  on  the  stem.     A  sheet  of  bloom 
Then  decks  the  garden,  till  the  summer  glows, 
Forming  the  perfect  fruit.     In  showery  nights 
The  fire-fly  glares  with  its  pendent  lamp 
Of  greenish  gold.    Each  dark  nook  has  a  voice, 
While  perfume  floats  on  every  wave  of  air. 
The  corn  lifts  up  its  baiidrols  long  and  slim ; 
The  cucumber  has  overflow'd  its  spot 
With  massy  verdure,  while  the  yellow  squash 
Looks  like  a  trumpet  'mid  its  giant  leaves ; 
And  as  we  reap  the  rich  fruits  of  our  care, 
We  bless  the  God  who  rains  his  gifts  on  us — 
Making  the  earth  its  treasures  rich  to  yield 
With  slight  and  fitful  toil.     Our  hearts  should  be 
Ever  bent  harps,  to  send  unceasing  hymns 
Of  thankful  praise  to  One  who  fills  all  space, 
And  yet  looks  down  with  smiles  on  lowly  man. 

ALFRED  STREET. 


THE    GARDENER. 

AN    OLD    SCOTCH   BALLAD. 

A  maiden  stude  in  her  bouir  door, 

As  jimp  as  a  willow  wand  ; 
When  by  there  came  a  gardener  lad 

Wi'  a  primrose  in  his  hand. 

"  0  ladye,  are  ye  single  yet, 

Or  will  ye  marry  me  ? 
Ye'se  get  a'  the  flouirs  in  my  garden, 

To  be  a  weed*  for  thee." 

"  I  love  your  flouirs,"  the  ladye  said, 
"  But  I  winna  marry  thee ; 

*  It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe  that  ?£<•<•<?,  in  old  English,  signified  garment 
,  meant  chamber,  or  apartment ;  knt<\  ankle ;  braune,  calf. 


180  THE      GARDEN. 

For  I  can  live  without  mankind, 
And  without  mankind  I'll  dee." 

"  You  shall  not  live  without  mankind. 

But  you  shall  marry  me  : 
And  among  the  flouirs  in  my  garden, 

I'll  shape  a  weed  for  thee. 

"  The  lilye  flouir  to  be  your  smock  ; 

It  becomes  your  bodie  best ; 
Your  head  shall  be  bushit  wi'  the  gellye-flouir ; 

The  primrose  in  your  breist. 

"  Your  gown  sail  be  o'  the  sweet-william  • 

Your  coat  o'  the  cammovine ; 
Your  apron  o'  the  seel  of  downs — 

Come  smile,  sweetheart  o'  mine ! 

"  Your  gloves  shall  be  o'  the  green  clover, 

All  glitterin  to  your  hand ; 
Weil  spread  ower  wi'  the  blue  blawort 

That  grows  among  corn-land. 

"  Your  stockings  shall  be  o'  the  cabbage-leaf, 

That  is  baith  braid  and  lang ; 
Narrow,  narrow  at  the  kute,* 

And  braid,  braid  at  the  braune.* 

"  Your  shoon  shall  be  o'  the  gude  rue  red, 

I  trow  it  bodes  nae  ill ; 
The  buckles  o'  the  marygold — 

Come  smile,  sweetheart,  your  fill !" 

"  Young  man,  ye've  shapit  a  weed  for  me 

Amang  the  simmer  flouirs ; 
Now  I  will  shape  anither  for  thee 

Amang  the  winter  showirs. 

"  The  snaw  so  white  shall  be  your  shirt, 

It  becomes  your  body  best ; 
The  cold  east  wind  shall  wrap  your  heid, 

And  the  cold  rain  on  your  breist. 

"  The  steed  that  you  shall  ride  upon 

Shall  be  the  weather  snell ; 
Weil  bridled  wi'  the  northern  wind, 

And  cold,  sharp  shouirs  o'  hail. 

*  See  note  on  previous  page. 


THE      GARDEN.  181 

"  The  hat  you  on  your  heid  shall  wear 

Shall  be  o'  the  weather  grey ; 
And  aye  when  ye  come  into  my  sicht, 

I'll  wish  ye  were  away." 

Aiunvymouv. 


LINES. 

Sweetly  breathing  vernal  air, 
That  with  kind  warmth  doth  repair 
Winter's  ruins ;  from  whose  breast 
All  the  gums  and  spice  of  th'  East 
Borrow  their  perfumes ;  whose  eye 
Gilds  the  morn  and  clears  the  sky  ; 
Whose  disshevel'd  tresses  shed 
Pearls  upon  the  violet-bed  ; 
On  whose  brow,  with  calm  smiles  drest, 
The  halcyon  sits  and  builds  her  nest ; 
Beauty,  youth,  and  endless  spring, 
Dwell  upon  thy  rosy  wing  ! 

Thou,  if  stormy  Boreas  throws 
Down  whole  forests  when  he  blows, 
With  a  pregnant,  flowery  birth, 
Canst  refresh  the  teeming  earth ; 
If  he  nip  the  early  bud ; 
If  he  blast  what's  fair  and  good ; 
If  he  scatter  our  choice  flowers ; 
If  he  shake  our  halls  and  bowers ; 
If  his  rude  breath  threaten  us, 
Thou  canst  strike  great  JEolus, 
And  from  him  the  grace  obtain, 
To  bind  him  in  an  iron  chain. 

THOMAS  OAKKW,  about  1600. 


XL 


Summer. 


SAXON     SONG     OF     SUMMER. 


MUUKKJJ    VKRSIC 


HUMMER  is  a  coming  in. 
tj    Loud  sing,  cuckoo  ; 
Groweth  seed,  and  bloweth  mead, 
And  springeth  the  wood  neAv. 
Sing,  cuckoo,  cuckoo ! 

Ewe  bleateth  after  lamb; 
Loweth  calf  after  cow  ; 
Bullock  starteth,  buck  departeth  ; 

Merry  sing,  cuckoo ; 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo ; 
Well  singeth  the  cuckoo — 
Sing  ever,  stop  never, 

Cuckoo,  cuckoo ; 

Sing,  cuckoo  !  Anonymous,  about  1250 


SUMMER,  1 83 


LINES 

FROM    THE   ANGLO-SAXON   OF   KINO   AI.FRKI). 

When  the  sun 

Clearest  shines 

Serenest  in  the  heaven, 

Quickly  are  obscured 

Over  the  earth 

All  other  stars ; 

Because  their  brightness  is  not 

Brightness  at  all 

Compared  with 

The  sun's  light. 

When  mild  blows 

The  southwestern  wind 

Under  the  clouds, 

Then  quickly  grow 

The  flowers  of  the  field, 

Joyful  that  they  may. 

But  the  stark  storm. 

When  it  comes  strong 

From  north  and  east, 

It  quickly  takes  away 

The  beauty  of  the  rose. 

And  also  the  northern  storm, 

Constrained  by  necessity, 

That  it  is  strongly  agitated, 

Lashes  the  spacious  sea 

Against  the  shore. 

Alas !  that  our  earth 

Aught  of  permanent 

Work  in  the  world 

Does  not  ever  remain ! 

EEV.  S.  Fox's  version,  SOO. 

THE    SUMMER    MONTHS. 

They  come !  the  merry  summer  months  of  beauty,  love,  and  flowers  ; 

They  come !  the  gladsome  months  that  bring  thick  leafiness  to  bowers. 

Up,  up,  my  heart !  and  walk  abroad,  fling  work  and  care  aside ; 

Seek  silent  hills,  or  rest  thyself  where  peaceful  waters  glide ; 

Or  underneath  the  shadow  vast  of  patriarchal  trees, 

See  through  its  leaves  the  cloudless  sky  in  rapt  tranquillity. 


184  SUMMER. 

The  grass  is  soft ;  its  velvet  touch  is  grateful  to  the  hand, 

And,  like  the  kiss  of  maiden  love,  the  breeze  is  sweet  and  bland  ; 

The  daisy  and  the  butter-cup  are  nodding  courteously  ; 

It  stirs  their  blood  with  kindest  love  to  bless  and  welcome  thee. 

And  mark  how  with  thine  own  thin  locks,  they  now  are  silvery  gray — 

That  blissful  breeze  is  wantoning,  and  whispering  "  Be  gay  !" 

There  is  no  cloud  that  sails  along  the  ocean  of  yon  sky 

But  hath  its  own  winged  mariners  to  give  it  melody. 

Thou  see'st  their  glittering  fans  outspread,  all  gleaming  like  red  gold, 

And  hark  !  with  shrill  pipe  musical,  their  merry  course  they  hold. 

God  bless  them  all,  these  little  ones,  who,  far  above  this  earth, 

Can  make  a  scoff  of  its  mean  joys,  and  vent  a  nobler  mirth. 

But  soft !  mine  ear  upcaught  a  sound — from  yonder  wood  it  came ; 
The  spirit  of  the  dim  green  glade  did  breathe  his  own  glad  name. 
Yes,  it  is  he  !  the  hermit  bird,  that  apart  from  all  his  kind, 
Slow  spells  his  beads  monotonous  to  the  soft  western  winds. 
Cuckoo  !  cuckoo !  he  sings  again — his  notes  are  void  of  art. 
But  simplest  strains  do  soonest  sound  the  deep  founts  of  the  heart. 

Good  Lord !  it  is  a  gracious  boon  for  thought-crazed  wight  like  me, 
To  smell  again  these  summer  flowers  beneath  this  summer  tree  ! 
To  suck  once  more  in  every  breath,  their  little  souls  away, 
And  feed  my  fancy  with  fond  dreams  of  youth's  bright  summer  day ; 
"When  rushing  forth,  like  untamed  colt,  the  reckless  truant  boy — 
Wandered  through  green  woods  all  day  long,  a  mighty  heart  of  joy  ! 

I'm  sadder  now — I  have  had  cause ;  but  0  I'm  proud  to  think 
That  each  pure  joy-fount  loved  of  yore  I  yet  delight  to  drink  ; 
Leaf,  blossom,  blade,  hill,  valley,  stream,  the  calm  unclouded  sky, 
Still  mingle  music  with  my  dreams,  as  in  the  days  gone  by. 
When  summer's  loveliness  and  light  fall  round  me  dark  and  cold, 
I'll  bear  indeed  life's  heaviest  curse,  a  heart  that  hath  waxed  old. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL,  1797-1S35. 


VIRTUE. 

Sweet  day  !  so  calm,  so  bright, 

The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky ; 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 
For  thou  must  die. 

Sweet  rose  !  whose  hue,  angry  and  brave, 

Bids  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye  ; 
Thy  root  is  ever  in  the  grave, 
And  thou  must  die. 


SUMMER.  185 

Sweet  spring !  full  of  sweet  days  and  roses— 

A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie — 
My  music  shows  ye  have  your  closes, 
And  all  must  die. 

Only  a  sweet  and  virtuous  soul, 

Like  season'd  timber,  never  gives  ; 
But  though  the  whole  world  turn  to  coal, 
Then  chiefly  lives. 

GEOBGE  HERBERT,  1593-1632. 


FROM  THE  "HOLY  DYING." 

But  as  when  the  sun  approaches  toward  the  gates  of  the  morning,  he 
first  opens  a  little  eye  of  heaven,  and  sends  away  the  spirits  of  dark- 
ness, and  gives  light  to  a  cock,  and  calls  up  the  lark  to  matins,  and 
by-and-by  gilds  the  fringes  of  a  cloud,  and  peeps  over  the  eastern  hills, 
thrusting  out  his  golden  horns — like  those  which  decked  the  brows  of 
Moses,  when  he  was  forced  to  wear  a  vail,  because  himself  had  seen  the 
face  of  God ;  and  still,  while  a  man  tells  the  story,  the  sun  gets  up  high- 
er till  he  shows  a  fair  face  and  full  light,  and  then  he  shines  one  whole 
day,  under  a  cloud  often,  and  sometimes  weeping  great  and  little  show- 
ers, and  sets  quickly  :  so  is  a  man's  reason  and  his  life." 

BISHOP  JEREMY  TAYLOR. 


SIMILE. 

As  when  the  cheerful  sun  clamping  wide, 

Glads  all  the  world  with  his  uprising  ray, 
And  woos  the  widowed  earth  afresh  to  pride, 

And  paints  her  bosom  with  the  flowery  May — 

His  silent  sister  steals  him  quite  way. 
Wrapp'd  in  a  sable  cloud,  from  mortal  eyes 
The  hasty  stars  at  noon  begin  to  rise, 
And  headlong  to  his  early  roost  the  sparrow  flies. 

But  soon  as  he  again  disshadowed  is, 

Restoring  the  blind  world  his  blemish'd  sight — 

As  though  another  world  were  newly  his ; 
The  cozened  birds  busily  take  their  flight, 
And  wonder  at  the  shortness  of  the  night, 

So  Mercy  once  again  herself  displays, 

Out  from  her  sister's  cloud,  and  open  lays 

Those  sunshine  looks,  whose  beams  would  dim  a  thousand  days 

GILES  FLETCHER. 


186  SUMMER. 


THE    SUN. 

But  yonder  comes  the  powerful  King  of  Day, 

Rejoicing  in  the  east.     The  lessening  cloud, 

The  kindling  azure,  and  the  mountain's  brow, 

Illum'd  with  fluid  gold,  his  near  approach 

Betoken  glad.  •  Lo !  now  apparent  all, 

Aslant  the  dew- bright  earth,  and  colored  air, 

He  looks  in  boundless  majesty  abroad, 

And  sheds  the  shining  day,  that  burnish'd  plays 

On  rocks,  and  hills,  and  towers,  and  wandering  streams, 

High-gleaming  from  afar.     Prime  cheerer,  light ! 

Of  all  material  beings,  first  and  best ! 

Efflux  divine  !    Nature's  resplendent  robe ! 

"Without  whose  vesting  beauty  all  were  wrapp'd 

In  unessential  gloom;  and  thou,  0  Sun, 

Soul  of  surrounding  worlds !  in  whom  best  seen 

Shines  out  thy  Maker !  may  I  sing  of  thee  ? 

******* 

The  vegetable  world  is  also  thine, 

Parent  of  Seasons !  who  the  pomp  precede 

That  waits  thy  throne,  as  through  thy  vast  domain, 

Annual,  along  the  bright  ecliptic  road, 

In  world-rejoicing  state,  it  moves  sublime. 

Meantime  th'  expecting  nations,  circled  gay 

With  all  the  various  tribes  of  foodful  earth, 

Implore  thy  bounty,  or  send  grateful  up 

A  common  hymn ;  while  'round  thy  beaming  car, 

High  seen,  the  seasons  lead  in  sprightly  dance. 

Harmonious  limit ;  the  rosy-finger'd  hours, 

The  zephyrs  floating  loose,  the  timely  rains, 

Of  bloom  ethereal  the  light-footed  dews, 

And,  softened  into  joy,  the  surly  storms. 

Here,  in  successive  turn,  with  lavish  hand 

Shower  every  beauty,  every  fragrance  shower, 

Herbs,  flowers,  and  fruits  ;  till,  kindling  at  thy  touch, 

From  land  to  land  is  flush'd  the  vernal  year. 

JAMES  THOMSON,  1TOO-174S. 


SUMMER.  187 


THE    SUN. 


Thou  lookest  on  the  earth,  and  then  it  smiles ; 

Thy  light  is  hid,  and  all  things  droop  and  mourn. 
Laughs  the  wild  sea  around  her  budding  isles, 

When  through  their  heaven  thy  changing  car  is  borne ; 

Thou  wheel'st  away  thy  flight,  the  woods  are  shorn 
Of  all  their  waving  locks,  and  storms  awake — 

All  that  was  once  so  beautiful  is  torn 
By  the  wild  winds  which  plow  the  lonely  lake, 
And  in  their  maddening  rush  the  crested  mountains  shake. 

The  earth  lies  buried  in  a  shroud  of  snow ; 

Life  lingers  and  would  die,  but  thy  return 
Gives  to  their  gladden'd  hearts  an  overflow 

Of  all  the  power  that  brooded  in  the  urn 

Of  their  chill'd  frames,  and  then  they  proudly  spurn 
All  bands  that  would  confine,  and  give  to  air 

Hues,  fragrance,  shapes  of  beauty,  till  they  burn, 
When,  on  a  dewy  morn,  thou  dartest  there 
Rich  waves  of  gold  to  wreathe  with  fairer  light  the  fair. 

The  vales  are  thine ;  and  when  the  touch  of  spring 
Thrills  them,  and  gives  them  gladness  in  thy  light, 

They  glitter  as  the  glancing  swallow's  wing 
Dashes  the  water  in  his  winding  flight, 
And  leaves  behind  a  wave  that  crumbles  bright, 

And  widens  outward  to  the  pebbled  shore — 

The  vales  are  thine  ;  and  when  they  wake  from  night, 

The  dews  that  bend  the  grass-tips,  twinkling  o'er 

Their  soft  and  oozy  beds,  look  upward,  and  adore. 

The  hills  are  thine;  they  catch  the  newest  beam, 
And  gladden  in  thy  parting,  where  the  wood 

Flames  out  in  every  leaf,  and  drinks  the  stream 
That  flows  from  out  thy  fullness,  as  a  flood 
Bursts  from  an  unknown  land,  and  rolls  the  food 

Of  nations  in  its  waters ;  so  thy  rays 

Flow  and  give  brighter  tints  than  ever  bud, 

When  a  clear  sheet  of  ice  reflects  a  blaze 

Of  many  twinkling  gems,  as  every  gloss'd  bough  plays. 


1 88  SUMMER. 

Thine  are  the  mountains,  where  they  purely  lift 

Snows  that  have  never  wasted  in  a  sky 
Which  hath  no  stain ;  below  the  storm  may  drift 

Its  darkness,  and  the  thunder-gust  roar  by ; 

Aloft  in  thy  eternal  smile  they  lie, 
Dazzling,  but  cold ;  thy  farewell  glance  looks  there ; 

And  when  below  thy  hues  of  beauty  die, 
Girt  round  them,  as  a  rosy  belt,  they  bear 
Into  the  high,  dark  vault  a  brow  that  still  is  fair. 

JAMES  G.  PEECITAL. 


DELIGHT    IN    GOD. 

I  love,  and  have  some  cause  to  love,  the  earth  ; 

She  is  my  Maker's  creature,  therefore  good. 
She  is  my  mother,  for  she  gave  me  birth. 

She  is  my  tender  nurse ;  she  gives  me  food. 

But  what's  a  creature,  Lord,  compar'd  to  thee  ? 

Or  what's  my  mother  or  my  nurse  to  me  ? 

I  love  the  air ;  her  dainty  sweets  refresh 

My  drooping  soul,  and  to  new  sweets  invite  me ; 

Her  shrill-mouth'd  choir  sustains  me  with  their  flesh. 
And  with  their  polyphonian  notes  delight  me. 
But  what's  the  air,  or  all  the  sweets  that  she 
Can  bless  my  soul  withal,  compar'd  to  thee  ? 

I  love  the  sea ;  she  is  my  fellow-creature — 
My  careful  purveyor ;  she  provides  me  store  ; 

She  walls  me  round ;  she  makes  my  diet  greater ; 
She  wafts  my  treasure  from  a  foreign  shore. 
But,  Lord  of  oceans,  when  compar'd  with  thee, 
What  is  the  ocean,  or  her  wealth  to  me  ? 

To  heaven's  high  city  I  direct  my  journey, 

Whose  spangled  suburbs  entertain  mine  eye  ; 
Mine  eye,  by  contemplation's  great  attorney, 

Transcends  the  crystal  pavement  of  the  sky. 

But  what  is  heav'n,  great  God,  compar'd  to  thee  ? 

Without  thy  presence,  heaven's  no  heaven  to  me- 

Without  thy  presence,  earth  gives  no  reflection  ; 

Without  thy  presence,  sea  affords  no  treasure ; 
Without  thy  presence,  air's  a  rank  infection ; 

Without  thy  presence,  heav'n's  itself  no  pleasure  : 


H  IT  M  M  K  K  .  J89 

If  not  possess'd,  if  not  enjoy'd  in  thee, 
What's  earth,  or  sea,  or  air,  or  heav'n  to  me  ? 

The  highest  honors  that  the  world  can  boast  * 

Are  subjects  far  too  low  for  my  desire; 
The  brightest  beams  of  glory  are,  at  most, 

But  dying  sparkles  of  thy  living  fire. 

The  loudest  flames  that  earth  can  kindle,  be 

But  nightly  glow-worms  if  compar'd  to  thee. 

Without  thy  presence,  wealth  is  bags  of  cares ; 

Wisdom,  but  folly ;  joy,  disquiet — sadness  : 
Friendship  is  treason,  and  delights  are  snares ; 

Pleasures  but  pain,  and  mirth  but  pleasing  madness. 

Without  thee,  Lord,  things  be  not  what  they  be, 

Nor  have  they  being,  when  compar'd  with  thee. 

In  having  all  things,  and  not  thee,  what  have  I  ? 

Not  having  thee,  what  have  my  labors  got  ? 
Let  me  enjoy  but  thee,  what  further  crave  I  ? 

And  having  thee  alone,  what  have  I  not  ? 

I  wish  nor  sea,  nor  land,  nor  would  I  be 

Possess'd  of  heav'n,  heav'n  unpossess'd  of  thee  ! 

FRANCIS  QUABLES,  1592-1664. 


NOON. 

FROM  THE   SPANISH. 

The  sun,  'midst  shining  glory  now  concealed 

Upon  heaven's  highest  seat, 
Darts  straightway  down  upon  the  parched  field, 

His  fierce  and  burning  heat ; 

And  on  revolving  noonday  calls,  that  be 

His  flushed  and  glowing  face 
May  show  the  world,  and,  rising  from  the  sea, 

Aurora's  reign  displace. 

The  wandering  wind  now  rests  his  weary  wings, 

And,  hushed  in  silence,  broods ; 
And  all  the  vocal  choir  of  songsters  sings 

Among  the  whispering  woods. 

And  sweetly  warbling  on  his  oaten  pipe, 

His  own  dear  shepherd -maid, 
The  herd-boy  leads  along  his  flock  of  sheep 

To  the  sequestered  shade ; 


1 90  SUMMER. 

Where  shepherd  youths  and  maids  in  secret  bowers, 

In  song  and  feast  unite 
In  joyful  band,  to  pass  the  sultry  hours 

Of  their  siesta  light. 

The  sturdy  hunter,  bathed  in  moisture  well, 

Beneath  an  oak-tree's  boughs, 
Beside  his  faithful  dog,  his  sentinel, 

Now  yields  him  to  repose. 

All,  all  is  calm,  is  silent.     0  how  sweet, 

On  this  enameled  ground, 
At  ease  recumbent,  from  its  flowery  seat, 

To  cast  your  eyes  around ! 

The  busy  bee,  that  round  your  listening  ear 

Murmurs  with  drowsy  hum ; 
The  faithful  turtles,  perched  on  oak-trees  near, 

Moaning  their  mates'  sad  doom. 

And  ever  in  the  distance  her  sweet  song 

Murmurs  lorn  Philomel ; 
While  the  hoar  forest's  echoing  glades  prolong 

Her  love  and  music  well. 

And  'midst  the  grass  slow  creeps  the  rivulet, 

In  whose  bright  limpid  stream 
The  blue  sky  and  the  world  of  boughs  are  met, 

Mirrored  in  one  bright  gleam. 

And  of  the  elm  the  hoar  and  silvery  leaves, 
The  slumbering  winds  scarce  blow, 

Which,  pictured  in  the  bright  and  tremulous  waves, 
Follow  their  motion  slow. 

These  airy  mountains,  and  this  fragrant  seat, 

Bright  with  a  thousand  flowers ; 
These  interwoven  forests,  where  the  heat 

Is  tempered  in  their  bowers  ! 

The  dark  umbrageous  woods,  the  dense  array 
Of  trunks,  through  which  there  peers 

Perchance  the  town,  which,  in  the  glow  of  day, 
Like  crystal  light  appears  ! 

These  cooling  grottoes !     0  retirement  blest ! 

Within  thy  calm  abode 
My  mind  alone  can  from  her  troubles  rest, 

With  solitude  and  God. 


8  (J  M  M  K  R  .  191 

Thou  giv'st  me  life,  and  liberty,  and  love, 

And  all  I  now  admire, 
And  from  the  winter  of  my  soul  dost  move 

The  deep  enthusiast  fire. 

0  bounteous  Nature,  'tis  thy  healing  womb 

Alone  can  peace  procure  ! 
Thither  all  ye,  the  weary,  laden,  come, 

From  storms  of  life  secure. 
Anonymom  Translation.  JUAN  MELENDEZ  VALDES,  1754-1817. 


SUMMER     DREAM. 


'Twas  summer ;  through  the  spring  grass 

The  joyous  flowers  upsprang; 
The  birds  in  all  their  different  tribes 

Loud  in  the  woodlands  sang : 
Then  forth  I  went,  and  wandered  far 

The  wide,  green  meadow  o'er — 
Where  cool  and  clear  the  fountain  play'd — 

There  strayed  I  in  that  hour. 

Roaming  on,  the  nightingale 

Sang  sweetly  in  my  ear ; 
And  by  the  greenwood's  shady  side, 

A  dream  came  to  me  there. 
Fast  by  the  fountain,  where  bright  flowers 

Of  sparkling  hue  we  see ; 
Close  sheltered  from  the  summer  heat, 

That  vision  came  to  me. 

All  care  was  banished,  and  repose 
Came  o'er  my  wearied  breast ; 

And  kingdoms  seemed  to  wait  on  me, 
For  I  was  with  the  blest. 

Yet  while  it  seemed  as  if  away, 

My  spirit  soared  on  high, 
And  in  the  boundless  joys  of  heaven 

Was  rapp'd  in  ecstasy ; 
E'en  then  my  body  revel'd  still 

In  earth's  festivity ; 
And  surely  never  was  a  dream 

So  sweet  as  this  to  me. 


192  SUMMER. 

Thus  I  dreamed  on,  and  might  have  dwelt 

Still  on  that  rapturous  dream, 
When  hark  !  a  raven's  luckless  note — 

(Sooth  'twas  a  direful  scream !) 
Broke  up  the  vision  of  delight. 

Instant  my  joy  was  past ; 
0  had  a  stone  but  met  my  hand, 

That  hour  had  been  his  last ! 
Translation  of  E.  TAYLOR.  WALTHER  VON  DER  VOGELWEIPE,  about  1150. 


SUMMER. 

The  spring's  gay  promise  melted  into  thee, 
Fair  summer  !  and  thy  gentle  reign  is  here ; 

The  emerald  robes  are  on  each  leafy  tree  ; 
In  the  blue  sky  thy  voice  is  rich  and  clear ; 

And  the  free  brooks  have  songs  to  bless  thy  reign — 

They  leap  in  music  midst  thy  bright  domain. 

The  gales  that  wander  from  the  unclouded  west 
Are  burden'd  with  the  breath  of  countless  fields  ; 

They  teem  with  incense  from  the  green  earth's  breast, 
That  up  to  heaven  its  grateful  odor  yields, 

Bearing  sweet  hymns  of  praise  from  many  a  bird, 

By  nature's  aspect  into  rapture  stirr'd. 

In  such  a  scene  the  sun-illumin'd  heart 

Bounds  like  a  prisoner  in  his  narrow  cell, 
When  through  its  bars  the  morning  glories  dart, 

And  forest  anthems  in  his  hearing  swell ; 
And  like  the  heaving  of  the  voiceful  sea, 
His  panting  bosom  labors  to  be  free. 

Thus,  gazing  on  thy  void  and  sapphire  sky, 

0  summer  !  in  my  inmost  soul  arise 
Uplifted  thoughts,  to  which  the  woods  reply, 

And  the  bland  air  with  its  soft  melodies ; 
Till  basking  in  some  vision's  glorious  ray, 
I  long  for  eagle's  plumes  to  flee  away. 

I  long  to  cast  this  cumbrous  clay  aside, 

And  the  impure,  unholy  thoughts  that  cling 
To  the  sad  bosom,  torn  with  care  and  pride  ; 

1  would  soar  upward,  on  unfetter'd  wing, 
Far  through  the  chambers  of  the  peaceful  skies, 
Where  the  high  fount  of  summer  brightness  lies  ! 

WILLIS  GAYLOBD  CLABK,  1S10-1S41. 


SUMMER.  193 


PORTUGUESE    CANZONET. 

OF    CAMOENB. 

Flowers  are  fresh,  and  bushes  green, 

Cheerily  the  linnets  sing  ; 
Winds  are  soft,  and  skies  serene  ; 

Time,  however,  soon  shall  throw. 
Winter's  snow, 

O'er  the  buxom  breast  of  spring  ! 

Hope  that  buds  in  lover's  heart, 

Lives  not  through  the  scorn  of  years ; 

Time  makes  love  itself  depart ; 

Time  and  scorn  congeal  the  mind — 

Looks  unkind — 
Freeze  affection's  warmest  tears. 

Time  shall  make  the  bushes  green ; 

Time  dissolve  the  winter  snow ; 
Winds  be  soft,  and  skies  serene ; 
Linnets  sing  their  wonted  strain. 

But  again, 

Blighted  love  shall  never  blow ! 

Translated  by  VISCOUNT  STEANGFOKD.  Luis  DE  CAMOENS.  1524-1579. 

9 


XII. 


fflttSt. 


FROM    "  EVANGELISE. 


is  the  forest  primeval.    The  murmuring  pines  and  the  hemlocks, 
J_   Bearded  with  moss,  and  in  garments  green,  indistinct  in  the  twilight, 
Stand  like  Druids  of  old,  with  voices  sad  and  prophetic, 
Stand  like  harpers  hoar,  with  beards  that  rest  on  their  bosoms. 
Loud  from  its  rocky  caverns  the  deep-  voiced  neighboring  ocean 
Speaks,  and  in  accents  disconsolate  answers  the  wail  of  the  forest. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


SONG. 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  tune  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
There  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 


THEFOR£8T.  1 95 

Who  doth  ambition  shun 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 
Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 
And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither  ; 
There  shall  he  see 
No  enemy, 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

SHAKSPKARE. 


A    GROVE. 

FKOM  "BRITANNIA'S  PASTOKAL." 

There  stood  the  elme,  whose  shade  so  mildly  dim 

Doth  nourish  all  that  groweth  under  him ; 

Cipresse  that  like  piramids  rune  topping, 

And  hurt  the  least  of  any  by  their  dropping, 

The  alder  whose  fat  shadow  nourisheth, 

Each  plant  set  neere  to  him  long  nourisheth. 

The  heavy-headed  plane-tree,  by  whose  shade 

The  grasse  grows  thickest,  men  are  fresher  made. 

The  oake,  that  best  endures  the  thunder- shocks; 

The  everlasting  ebene,  cedar,  boxe ; 

The  olive  that  in  wainscot  never  cleans ; 

The  amorous  vine  which  in  the  elme  still  weaves  ; 

The  lotus,  juniper,  where  worms  ne'er  enter ; 

The  pyne,  with  whom  men  through  the  ocean  venter  ; 

The  war-like  yeugh,  by  which  (more  than  the  lance) 

The  strong-arm'd  English  spirits  conquer'd  France. 

Among  the  rest  the  tamariske  there  stoode 

For  huswife's  besoms  only  knowne  most  goode. 

The  cold-place-loving  birch,  and  servis-tree  ; 

The  walnut  loving  vales,  the  mulberry. 

The  maple,  ashe,  that  doe  delight  in  fountains, 

Which  have  their  currents  by  the  side  of  mountains. 

The  laurell,  mirtle,  ivy,  date,  which  hold 

Their  leaves  all  winter,  be  it  ne'er  so  cold. 

The  firre,  that  often  times  doth  rosins  drop ; 

The  beach  that  scales  the  welkin  with  his  top. 

All  these,  and  thousand  more,  within  this  grove, 

By  all  the  industry  of  nature  strove 

To  frame  an  arbour  that  might  keep  within  it, 

The  best  of  beauties  that  the  world  hath  in  it. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE,  1590-1645. 


196  THE      FOREST. 


OF    THE    SEMINARY,    AND    OF    TRANSPLANTING. 


FROM   "  THE    811. VA.' 


Qui  Vineas  vel  Jlrbustum  constituere  volet,  Seminaria  prius  facere 
debebit,  was  the  precept  of  Columella  (de  Arb.,  cap.  1),  speaking  of 
vineyards  and  fruit-trees;  and  doubtless  we  can  not  pursue  a  better 
course  for  the  propagation  of  timber-trees.  For  though  it  seem  but  a 
trivial  design,  that  one  should  make  a  nursery  of  foresters ;  yet  it  is 
not  to  be  imagined,  without  the  experience  of  it,  what  prodigious  num- 
bers a  very  small  spot  of  ground,  well-cultivated,  and  destined  for  this 
purpose,  would  be  able  to  furnish  toward  the  sending  forth  of  yearly 
colonies  into  all  the  naked  quarters  of  a  lordship,  or  demesne ;  being, 
with  a  pleasant  industry,  liberally  distributed  among  the  tenants,  and 
disposed  about  the  hedge-rows,  and  other  waste  and  uncultivated  places 
for  timber,  shelter,  fuel,  and  ornament,  to  an  incredible  advantage. 
This  being  a  cheap  and  laudable  work,  of  so  much  pleasure  in  the  exe- 
cution, and  so  certain  a  profit  in  the  event,  when  once  well  done  (for,  as 
I  affirmed,  a  very  small  plantarium,  or  nursery,  will,  in  a  few  years, 
stock  a  vast  extent  of  ground),  has  made  me  sometimes  in  admiration  at 
the  universal  negligence ;  as  well  as  raised  my  admiration,  that  seeds 
and  plants  of  such  different  kinds,  should,  like  so  many  tender  babes 
and  infants  suck  and  thrive  at  the  same  breasts ;  though  there  are 
some,  indeed,  will  not  so  well  prosper  in  company,  requiring  peculiar 
juices.  But  this  niceness  is  more  conspicuous  in  flowers  and  the  her- 
baceous offspring,  than  in  foresters,  which  require  only  diligent  weeding 
and  frequent  cleansing,  till  they  are  able  to  shift  for  themselves ;  and 
as  their  vessels  enlarge  and  introduce  -more  copious  nourishment,  they 
often  starve  their  neighbors. 

JOHN  EVELYN,  1628-1 T06. 


WINDSOR    FOREST. 

The  groves  of  Eden,  vanish'd  now  so  long, 
Live  in  description  and  look  green  in  song  ; 
These,  were  my  breast  inspir'd  with  equal  flame, 
Like  them  in  beauty,  should  be  like  in  fame. 
Here  hills  and  vales,  the  woodland  and  the  plain, 
Here  earth  and  water  seem  to  strive  again ! 
Not  chaos-like,  together  crush'd  and  bruis'd, 
But  as  the  world,  harmoniously  confus'd  ; 
Where  order  in  variety  we  see, 
And  where,  though  all  things  differ,  all  agree. 


THEFOREST.  197 

Here  waving  groves  a  checker'd  scant  display, 
And  part  admit,  and  part  exclude  the  day  ; 
As  some  coy  nymph  her  lover's  -warm  address, 
Nor  quite  indulges,  nor  can  quite  repress. 
There  interspers'd  in  lawns  and  op'ning  glades, 
Thin  trees  arise  that  shun  each  other's  shades  ; 
There,  in  full  light,  the  russet  plains  extend  ; 
There,  wrapt  in  clouds,  the  bluish  hills  extend. 
Ev'n  the  wild  heath  displays  her  purple  dyes, 
And  'midst  the  desert  fruitful  fields  arise, 
That,  crown'd  with  tufted  trees  and  fringing  corn, 
Like  verdant  isles,  the  sable  waste  adorn. 
Let  India  boast  her  plants,  nor  envy  we 
The  weeping  amber  or  the  balmy  tree, 
While  by  our  oaks  the  precious  loads  are  borne 
And  realms  commanded  which  those  trees  adorn. 
Not  proud  Olympus  yields  a  nobler  sight, 
Though  gods  assembled  grace  his  tow'ring  height, 
Than  what  more  humble  mountains  offer  here, 
Where,  in  their  blessings,  all  those  gods  appear. 
See  Pan,  with  flocks,  with  fruits  Pomone  crown'd ; 
There  blushing  Flora  paints  th'  enamel'd  ground, 
Here  Ceres'  gifts  in  waving  prospect  stand, 
And  nodding  tempt  the  joyful  reaper's  hand  ; 
Rich  Industry  sits  smiling  on  the  plains, 
And  peace  and  plenty  tell  a  Stuart  reigns. 

ALEXANDER  POPE,  1688-1744. 


FAIRLOP. 

In  a  glade  of  Hainhault  forest,  in  Essex,  about  a  mile  from  Barkin- 
side,  stands  an  oak,  which  has  been  known  through  many  centuries  by 
the  name  of  Fairlop.  The  traditions  of  the  country  trace  it  half  way 
up  the  Christian  era.  It  is  still  a  noble  tree,  though  it  has  now  suffered 
greatly  from  the  depredations  of  time.  About  a  yard  from  the  ground, 
where  its  rough,  fluted  stem  is  thirty-six  feet  in  circumference,  it  divides 
into  eleven  arms ;  yet  not  in  the  horizontal  manner  of  an  oak,  but 
rather  in  that  of  a  beech.  Beneath  its  shade,  which  overspreads  an  area 
of  three  hundred  feet  in  circuit,  an  annual  fair  has  long  been  held,  on 
the  2d  of  July  ;  and  no  booth  is  suffered  to  be  erected  beyond  the  extent 
of  its  boughs.  But  as  their  extremities  are  now  become  sapless,  and 
age  is  yearly  curtailing  their  length,  the  liberties  of  the  fair  seem  to  be 
in  a  desponding  condition.  The  honor  however  is  great.  But  honors 
are  often  accompanied  with  inconveniences ;  and  Fairlop  has  suffered 


198  THE      FOREST. 

from  its  distinctions.  In  the  feasting  that  attends  the  fair,  fires  are 
often  necessary ;  and  no  places  seemed  so  proper  to  make  them  in,  as 
the  hollow  cavities  formed  by  the  heaving  roots  of  the  tree.  This  prac- 
tice has  brought  a  speedier  decay  on  Fairlop  than  it  might  otherwise 

have  suffered. 

WILLIAM  GILPIN,  1724-1807. 


AN    OLD    OAK. 

FHOM  COWPEB'S  LETTKRB. 

Since  your  departure  I  have  twice  visited  the  oak,  with  an  intention 
of  pushing  my  inquiries  a  mile  beyond  it,  where  it  seems  I  should  have 
found  another  oak,  much  larger,  and  much  more  respectable  than  the 
former ;  but  once  I  was  hindered  by  the  rain,  and  once  by  the  sultri- 
ness of  the  day.  This  latter  oak  has  been  known  by  the  name  of 
"  Judith"  many  ages,  and  is  said  to  have  been  an  oak  at  the  time  of 
the  Conquest.  If  I  have  not  an  opportunity  to  reach  it  before  your  ar- 
rival here,  we  will  attempt  that  exploit  together,  and  even  if  I  should 
have  been  able  to  visit  it  ere  you  come,  I  shall  yet  be  glad  to  do  so,  for 
the  pleasure  of  extraordinary  sights,  like  all  other  pleasures,  is  doubled 
by  the  participation  of  a  friend. 

W.  COWPBE.— Letter  to  S.  Rose,  Esq.,  Sept.  11, 1788. 


YARDLEY    OAK. 

Survivor  sole,  and  hardly  such,  of  all 
That  once  lived  here,  thy  brethren,  at  my  birth, 
(Since  which  I  number  threescore  winters  past), 
A  shatter'd  veteran,  hollow-trunk'd  perhaps, 
As  now,  and  with  excoriate  forks  deform, 
Relics  of  ages  !     Could  a  mind,  imbued 
With  truth  from  Heaven,  created  thing  adore, 
I  might  with  rev'rence  kneel,  and  worship  thee. 

It  seems  idolatry  with  some  excuse, 
When  our  forefather  Druids  in  their  oaks, 
Imagined  sanctity.     The  conscience,  yet 
Unpurified  by  an  authentic  act 
Of  amnesty,  the  meed  of  blood  divine, 
Lov'd  not  the  light,  but,  gloomy,  into  gloom 
Of  thickest  shades,  like  Adam  after  taste 
Of  fruit  proscrib'd,  as  to  a  refuge,  fled. 


THE      FOREST.  199 

Thou  wast  a  bauble  once  ;  a  cup-and-ball, 
Which  babes  might  play  with  ;  and  the  thievish  jay 
Seeking  her  food,  with  ease  might  have  purloin'd 
The  auburn  nut  that  held  thee,  swallowing  down 
Thy  yet  close-folded  latitude  of  boughs, 
And  all  thy  embryo  vastness,  at  a  gulp. 
But  Fate  thy  growth  decreed  ;  autumnal  rains 
Beneath  thy  parent  tree  mellow'd  the  soil 
Design'd  thy  cradle  ;  and  a  skipping  deer, 
With  pointed  hoof,  nibbling  the  glebe,  prepar'd 
The  soft  receptacle,  in  which,  secure, 
Thy  rudiments  should  sleep  the  winter  through. 

So  Fancy  dreams.     Disprove  it  if  ye  can 
Ye  reas'ners  broad  awake,  whose  busy  search 
Of  argument  employ'd  too  oft  amiss, 
Sifts  half  the  pleasure  of  short  life  away  ! 

Thou  fill'st  nature ;  and  in  the  loamy  clod, 
Swelling  with  vegetative  force  instinct, 
Didst  burst  thine  egg,  as  theirs  the  fabled  Twins, 
Now  stars ;  two  lobes  protruding,  pair'd  exact ; 
A  leaf  succeeded,  and  another  leaf, 
And,  all  the  elements  thy  puny  growth 
Fost'ring  propitious,  thou  becam'st  a  twig. 

Who  liv'd  when  thou  wast  such  ?     0  couldst  thou  speak 
As  in  Dodona  once,  thy  kindred  trees, 
Oracular,  I  would  not  curious  ask 
The  future,  best  unknown,  but  at  thy  mouth 
Inquisitive,  the  less  ambiguous  past. 

By  thee  I  might  correct,  erroneous  oft, 
The  clock  of  History,  facts  and  events 
Timing  more  punctual,  unrecorded  facts 
Recov'ring,  and  misstated,  setting  right — 
Desp'rate  attempt,  till  trees  shall  speak  again ! 

Time  made  thee  what  thou  wast,  king  of  the  wood ; 
And  Time  hath  made  thee  what  thou  art — a  cave 
For  owls  to  roost  in.     Once  thy  spreading  boughs 
O'erhung  the  champaign  ;  and  the  numerous  flocks 
That  graz'd  it  stood  beneath  that  ample  cope 
Uncrowded,  yet  safe-shelter'd  from  the  storm. 
No  flocks  frequent  thee  now.    Thou  hast  outlived 


200 


THE      FOREST. 


Thy  popularity,  and  art  become 

(Unless  Terse  rescue  thee  awhile)  a  thing 

Forgotten  as  the  foliage  of  thy  youth. 

While  thus  through  all  the  stages  thou  hast  push'd 
Of  treeship — first  a  seedling,  hid  in  grass  ; 
Then  twig  ;  then  sapling ;  and  as  cent'ry  roll'd 
Slow  after  century,  a  giant-bulk 
Of  girth  enormous,  with  moss-cushion'd  root 
Upheav'd  above  the  soil,  and  sides  emboss'd 
With  prominent  wens  globose — till  at  the  last 
The  rottenness,  which  time  is  charged  to  inflict 
On  other  mighty  ones,  found  also  thee. 
***** 

WILLIAM  COWPEK,  1731-1800. 


THE  GROANING  ELM  OF  BADESLEY. 

The  history  of  the  Groaning  Tree  is  this.  About  forty  years  ago,  a 
cottager,  who  lived  near  the  center  of  the  village  (Badesley,  near  Lym- 
ington),  heard  frequently  a  strange  noise  behind  his  house,  like  that  of 
a  person  in  extreme  agony.  Soon  after  it  caught  the  attention  of  his 
wife,  who  was  then  confined  to  her  bed.  She  was  a  timorous  woman, 
and  being  greatly  alarmed,  her  husband  endeavored  to  persuade  her 
that  the  noise  she  heard  was  only  the  bellowing  of  the  stags  in  the 
forest.  By  degrees,  however,  the  neighbors  on  all  sides  heard  it,  and 
the  thing  began  to  be  much  talked  of.  It  was  by  this  time  plainly  dis- 
covered that  the  groaning  noise  proceeded  from  an  elm,  which  grew  at 
the  end  of  the  garden.  It  was  a  young,  vigorous  tree,  and,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, perfectly  sound. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  fame  of  the  groaning  tree  was  spread  far  and 
wide,  and  people  from  all  parts  flocked  to  it.  Among  others,  it  attract- 
ed the  curiosity  of  the  late  Prince  and  Princess  of  Wales,*  who  resided, 
at  that  time  for  the  advantage  of  a  sea-bath,  at  Pilewell,  the  seat  of  Sir 
James  Worsley,  which  stood  within  a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  the  groaning 
tree. 

Though  the  country  people  assigned  many  superstitious  causes  for  this 
strange  phenomonon,  the  naturalist  could  assign  no  physical  one  that 
was  in  any  degree  satisfactory.  Some  thought  that  it  was  owing  to  the 
twisting  and  friction  of  the  roots.  Others  thought  it  proceeded  from 
water,  which  had  collected  in  the  body  of  the  tree — or  perhaps  from 
pent  air.  But  no  cause  that  was  alleged  appeared  equal  to  the  effect. 
In  the  mean  time  the  tree  did  not  always  groan — sometimes  disappointing 

*  Frederick  Prince  of  Wales,  father  of  George  III.— ED. 


THE      FOREST.  201 

its  visitants ;  yet  no  cause  could  be  assigned  for  its  temporary  cessa- 
tions, either  from  seasons  or  weather.  If  any  difference  was  observed, 
it  was  thought  to  groan  least  when  the  weather  was  wet,  and  most 
when  it  was  clear  and  frosty  ;  but  the  sound  at  all  times  seemed  to  arise 
from  the  root. 

Thus  the  groaning  tree  continued  an  object  of  astonishment  during 
the  space  of  eighteen  or  twenty  months,  to  all  the  country  around;  and 
for  the  information  of  distant  parts  a  pamphlet  was  drawn  up  containing 
u  particular  account  of  all  the  circumstances  relating  to  it. 

At  length  the  owner  of  it,  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of  Forbes,  making 
too  rash  an  experiment  to  discover  the  cause,  bored  a  hole  in  its  trunk. 
After  this  it  never  groaned.  It  was  then  rooted  up,  with  a  further  view 
to  making  a  discovery  ;  but  still  nothing  appeared  which  led  to  any  in- 
vestigation of  the  cause.  It  was  universally,  however,  believed  that  there 
was  no  trick  in  the  affair,  but  that  some  natural  cause  really  existed, 
though  never  understood. 

WILLIAM  GILPIN,  1724-1S07. 


YEW-TREES. 

There  is  a  yew-tree,  pride  of  Horton  Vale, 
Which  to  this  day  stands  single,  in  the  midst 
Of  its  own  darkness,  as  it  stood  of  yore, 
Not  loth  to  furnish  weapons  for  the  bands 
Of  Umfraville  or  Percy,  ere  they  marched 
To  Scotland's  heaths ;  or  those  that  crossed  the  sea 
And  drew  their  sounding  bows  at  Agincour, 
Perhaps  at  earlier  Crecy,  or  at  Poitiers. 
Of  vast  circumference  and  gloom  profound 
This  solitary  tree  !  a  living  thing 
Produced  too  slowly  ever  to  decay  ; 
Of  form  and  aspect  too  magnificent 
To  be  destroyed.     But  worthier  still  of  note 
Are  those  fraternal  Four  of  Borrowdale, 
Joined  in  one  solemn  and  capacious  grove ; 
Huge  trunks  !  and  each  particular  trunk  a  growth 
Of  intertwisted  fibers  serpentine, 
Up-coiling,  and  inveterately  convolved — 
Nor  uninformed  with  phantasy,  and  looks 
That  threaten  the  profane  ;  a  pillared  shade, 
Upon  whose  grassless  floor  of  red- brown  hue, 
By  sheddings  from  the  piny  umbrage  tinged 
Perennially — beneath  whose  sable  roof 
Of  boughs,  as  if  for  festal  purpose,  decked 
9* 


202  THE      FOREST. 

With  unrejoicing  berries,  ghostly  shapes 

May  meet  at  noontide  :  Fear  and  trembling  Hope, 

Silence  and  Foresight — Death  the  skeleton, 

And  Time  the  shadow — here  to  celebrate, 

As  in  a  natural  temple  scattered  o'er 

With  altars  undisturbed  of  mossy  stone, 

United  worship  ;  or  in  mute  repose 

To  lie,  and  listen  to  the  mountain  flood 

Murmuring  from  Glaramara's  inmost  caves. 

WILLIAM  WOKDSWOETH. 


LINES. 

FROM   THE   ICELANDIC   KDDA. 

I  know  an  ash, 
Named  Ygg-drasill, 
A  stately  tree, 
With  white  dust  strewed. 
Thence  come  the  dews 
That  wet  the  dales  ; 
It  stands  aye  green 
O'er  Urda's  well. 

Thence  come  the  maids 
Who  much  do  know  ; 
Three  from  the  hall 
Beneath  the  tree ; 
One  they  named  Was, 
And  Being  next, 
The  third  Shall  be, 
On  the  shield  they  cut. 

HENDERSON'S  "Iceland." 


LIME-TREES. 

At  Niestad,*  in  the  duchy  of  Wurtemburg,  stood  a  lime,  which  was  for 
many  ages  so  remarkable  that  the  city  frequently  took  its  denomination 
from  it,  being  often  called  Neustadt  ander  grossen  Linden,  or  Niestad 
near  the  Great  Lime.  Scarce  any  person  passed  near  Niestad  without 
visiting  this  tree ;  and  many  princes  and  great  men  did  honor  to  it  by 
building  obelisks,  columns,  and  monuments  of  various  kinds  around  it. 
engraved  with  their  arms  and  names,  to  which  the  dates  were  added, 
and  often  some  device.  Mr.  Evelin,  who  procured  copies  of  several  of 

*  Neustadt 


THE      FOREST.  203 

these  monumental  inscriptions,  tells  us  there  were  two  hundred  of  them. 
The  columns  on  which  they  were  fixed  served  also  to  bear  up  the  vast 
limbs  of  the  tree,  which  began  through  age  to  become  unwieldy.  Thus 
this  mighty  plant  stood  many  years  in  great  state,  the  ornament  of  the 
town,  the  admiration  of  the  country,  and  supported,  as  it  were,  by  the 
princes  of  the  empire.  At  length  it  felt  the  effects  of  war.  Niestad  was 
surrounded  by  an  enemy,  and  the  limbs  of  this  venerable  tree  were  man- 
gled in  wantonness  by  the  besieging  troops.  Whether  it  still  exists,  I 
know  not ;  but  long  after  these  injuries  it  stood  a  noble  ruin,  discover- 
ing, by  the  foundations  of  the  several  monuments,  which  formerly  prop- 
ped its  spreading  boughs,  how  far  its  limits  had  once  extended. 

*  *  *  I  shall  next  celebrate  the  Lime  of  Cleves.  This,  also,  was  a 
tree  of  great  magnificence.  It  grew  in  an  open  plain,  just  at  the  en- 
trance of  the  city,  and  was  thought  an  object  worthy  to  exercise  the 
taste  of  the  magistracy.  The  burgomaster  of  his  day  had  it  surveyed 
with  great  accuracy,  and  trimmed  into  eight  broad,  pyramidal' faces. 
Each  corner  was  supported  by  a  handsome  stone  pillar ;  and  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  tree,  among  the  branches,  was  cut  a  noble  room,  which  the 
vast  space  contained  within  easily  suffered,  without  injuring  the  regu- 
larity of  any  of  the  eight  faces.  To  crown  all,  the  top  was  curiously 
clipped  into  some  kind  of  head,  and  adorned  artificially,  but  in  what 
manner,  whether  with  the  head  of  a  lion,  or  a  stag,  a  weather-cock,  or  a 
sun-dial,  we  are  not  told.  It  was  something,  however,  in  the  highest 
style  of  Dutch  taste.  This  tree  was  long  the  admiration  and  envy  of  all 
the  states  of  Holland. 

WILLIAM  GILPIN,  1724-1807. 


THE    BIRCH-TREE. 

Rippling  through  thy  branches  goes  the  sunshine, 
Among  thy  leaves  that  palpitate  forever  ; 
Ovid  in  thee  a  pining  Nymph  had  prisoned, 
The  soul  once  of  some  tremulous,  inland  river, 
Quivering  to  tell  her  woe,  but,  ah  !  dumb,  dumb  forever  ! 

While  all  the  forest,  witched  with  slumberous  moonshine, 

Holds  up  its  leaves  in  happy,  happy  silence ; 

Waiting  the  dew,  with  breath  and  pulse  suspended — 

I  hear  afar  thy  whispering,  gleamy  islands, 

And  track  thee  wakeful  still  amid  the  wide-hung  silence. 

Upon  the  brink  of  some  wood-nestled  lakelet, 
Thy  foliage,  like  the  tresses  of  a  Dryad, 
Dripping  about  thy  slim  white  stem,  whose  shadow 


204  THE      FOREST. 

Slopes  quivering  down  the  water's  dusky  quiet, 

Thou  shrink'st,  as  on  her  bath's  edge  would  some  strolled  Dryad. 

Thou  art  the  go-between  of  rustic  lovers ; 
Thy  white  bark  has  their  secrets  in  its  keeping  ; 
Reuben  writes  here  the  happy  name  of  Patience, 
And  the  lithe  boughs  hang  murmuring  and  weeping 
Above  her,  as  she  steals  the  mystery  from  thy  keeping. 

Thou  art  to  me  like  my  beloved  maiden, 

So  frankly  coy,  so  full  of  trembly  confidences ; 

Thy  shadow  scarce  seems  shade,  thy  pattering  leaflets 

Sprinkle  their  gathered  sunshine  o'er  my  senses, 

And  Nature  gives  me  all  her  summer  confidences. 

Whether  my  heart  with  hope  or  sorrow  tremble, 
Thou  sympathized  still ;  wild  and  unquiet, 
I  fling  me  down ;  thy  ripple,  like  a  river, 
Flows  valley-ward,  where  calmness  is,  and  by  it 
My  heart  is  floated  down  into  the  land  of  quiet. 

J.  E.  LOWELL. 


THE    HEMLOCK-TREE. 


0  hemlock-tree !  0  hemlock-tree  !  how  faithful  are  thy  branches ! 
Green  not  alone  in  summer  time, 
But  in  the  winter's  frost  and  rime ! 

0  hemlock-tree !  0  hemlock-tree  !  how  faithful  are  thy  branches ! 

0  maiden  fair  !  0  maiden  fair  !  how  faithless  is  thy  bosom ! 

To  love  me  in  prosperity, 

And  leave  me  in  adversity 
0  maiden  fair  !  0  maiden  fair !  how  faithless  is  thy  bosom  ! 

The  nightingale  !  the  nightingale  thou  tak'st  for  thine  example ! 
So  long  as  summer  laughs  she  sings, 
But  in  the  autumn  spreads  her  wings ; 

The  nightingale  !  the  nightingale  thou  tak'st  for  thine  example  ! 

The  meadow-brook,  the  meadow-brook  is  mirror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 

It  flows  so  long  as  falls  the  rain ; 

In  drought  its  springs  soon  dry  again ; 

The  meadow-brook,  the  meadow-brook  is  mirror  of  thy  falsehood  ! 
Anonymous.  Translation  o/"H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


THE      FOREST.  205 


THE    OAK. 

IMITATED    FROM   THE   ITALIAN    OF    METABTASIO. 

The  tall  oak,  towering  to  the  skies, 
The  fury  of  the  wind  defies  ; 
From  age  to  age,  in  virtue  strong, 
Inured  to  stand,  and  suffer  wrong. 

O'erwhelmed  at  length,  upon  the  plain 
It  puts  forth  wings,  and  sweeps  the  main ; 
The  self-same  foe  undaunted  braves, 
And  fights  the  winds  upon  the  waves. 

JAMBS  MONTGO 


ON    AN    ANCIENT    OAK. 

FROM   THE    OUKKK   OF  ANTIPHILUB. 

Hail,  venerable  boughs,  that  in  mid  sky 
Spread  broad  and  deep  your  leafy  canopy  ! 
Hail,  cool,  refreshing  shade,  abode  most  dear 
To  the  sun- wearied  traveler,  wand'ring  near  ! 
Hail,  close  inwoven  bow'rs,  fit  dwelling-place 
For  insect  tribes,  and  man's  imperial  race  ! 
Me,  too,  reclining  in  your  green  retreat, 
Shield  from  the  blazing  day's  meridian  heat. 

Translation  of  J.  II.  MERIVALE. 


WOOD    NOTES. 

And  such  I  knew  a  forest  seer, 
A  minstrel  of  the  natural  year, 
Foreteller  of  the  vernal  ides, 
Wise  harbinger  of  spheres  and  tides — 
A  lover  true,  who  knew  by  heart, 
Each  joy  the  mountain  dales  impart; 
It  seemed  that  Nature  could  not  raise 
A  plant  in  any  secret  place  ; 
In  quaking  bog,  or  snowy  hill. 
Beneath  the  grass  that  shades  the  rill. 
Under  the  snow,  between  the  rocks, 
In  damp  fields,  known  to  bird  and  fox ; 


206  THE      FOREST 

But  he  would  come  in  the  very  hour 

It  opened  in  its  virgin  bower, 

As  if  a  sunbeam  showed  the  place, 

And  tell  its  long -descended  race. 

It  seemed  as  if  the  breezes  brought  him  ; 

It  seemed  as  if  the  sparrows  taught  him ; 

As  if  by  secret  sight  he  knew 

Where,  in  far  fields,  the  orchis  grew. 

Many  haps  fall  in  the  field, 

Seldom  seen  by  wistful  eyes ; 

But  all  her  shows  did  Nature  yield, 

To  please  and  win  this  pilgrim  wise. 

He  saw  the  partridge  drum  in  the  woods , 

He  heard  the  woodcock's  evening  hymn ; 

He  found  the  tawny  thrush's  broods ; 

And  the  sky-hawk  did  wait  for  him. 

What  others  did  at  distance  hear, 

And  guessed  within  the  thicket's  gloom, 

Was  showed  to  this  philosopher, 

And  at  his  bidding  seemed  to  come. 

In  unplowed  Maine  he  sought  the  lumberer's  gang, 

Where  from  a  hundred  lakes  young  rivers  sprang ; 

He  trod  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon 

The  all- seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone ; 

Where  feeds  the  moose  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 

And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

He  saw  beneath  dim  aisles,  in  odorous  beds, 

The  slight  Linnea  hang  its  twin-born  heads  ; 

And  blessed  the  monument  of  the  man  of  flowers, 

Which  breathes  his  sweet  fame  through  the  northern  bowers. 

He  heard,  when  in  the  grove,  at  intervals, 

With  sudden  roar  the  aged  pine-tree  falls  — 

One  crash,  the  death -hymn  of  the  perfect  tree, 

Declares  the  close  of  its  green  century. 

Low  lies  the  plant  to  whose  creation  went 

Sweet  influence  from  every  element ; 

Whose  living  towers  the  years  conspired  to  build — 

WThose  giddy  top  the  morning  loved  to  gild. 

Through  these  green  tents,  by  eldest  Nature  dressed, 

He  roamed,  content  alike  with  man  and  beast. 

Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night ; 

There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

Three  moons  his  great  heart  him  a  hermit  made, 

So  long  he  roved  at  will  the  boundless  shade. 


THE      FOREST.  207 

The  timid  it  concerns  to  ask  their  way, 

And  fear  what  foe  in  caves  and  swamps  can  stray  ; 

To  make  no  step  until  the  event  is  known, 

And  ills  to  come,  as  evils  past,  bemoan. 

Not  so  the  wise  ;  no  coward  watch  he  keeps, 

To  spy  what  danger  on  his  pathway  creeps. 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home — 

His  hearth  the  earth,  his  hall  the  azure  dome  ; 

Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there  his  road, 

By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed. 

E.  W.  EMERSON. 


A    PINE-FOREST. 

Those  who  have  only  lived  in  forest  countries,  where  vast  tracts  are 
shaded  by  a  dense  growth  of  oak,  ash,  chestnut,  hickory,  and  other  trees 
of  deciduous  foliage,  which  present  the  most  pleasing  varieties  of  ver- 
dure and  freshness,  can  have  but  little  idea  of  the  effect  produced  on  the 
feelings  by  aged  forests  of  pine,  composed  in  great  degree  of  a  single 
species,  whose  towering  summits  are  crowned  with  one  dark-green  can- 
opy, which  successive  seasons  find  unchanged,  and  nothing  but  death 
causes  to  vary.  Their  robust  and  gigantic  trunks  rise  a  hundred  or 
more  feet  high  in  purely  proportioned  columns  before  the  limbs  begin  to 
diverge ;  and  their  tops,  densely  clothed  with  long,  bristling  foliage,  in- 
termingle so  closely  as  to  allow  of  but  slight  entrance  to  the  sun.  Hence 
the  undergrowth  of  such  forests  is  comparatively  slight  and  thin,  since 
none  but  shrubs  and  plants  that  love  the  shade  can  flourish  under  this 
perpetual  exclusion  of  the  animating  and  invigorating  rays  of  the  great 
exciter  of  the  vegetable  world.  Through  such  forests,  and  by  the 
merest  foot-paths  in  great  part,  it  was  my  lot  to  pass  many  miles  almost 
every  day ;  and  had  I  not  endeavored  to  derive  some  amusement  and 
instruction  from  the  study  of  the  forest  itself,  my  time  would  have  been 
as  fatiguing  to  me  as  it  was  certainly  quiet  and  solemn.  But  wherever 
Nature  is,  and  under  whatever  form  she  may  present  herself,  enough  is 
always  proffered  to  fix  attention  and  to  produce  pleasure,  if  we  will  con- 
descend to  observe  with  carefulness.  I  soon  found  that  even  a  pine- 
forest  was  far  from  being  devoid  of  interest. 

JOHN  M.  GODMAN,  1795-1829. 


208  THE      FOREST 


A    WOOD    IN    WINTER. 

FROM   THE   ITALIAN. 

Sweet,  lonely  wood,  that  like  a  friend  art  found 
To  soothe  my  weary  thoughts  that  brood  on  woe, 
While  through  dull  days  and  short  the  north  winds  blow, 
Numbing  with  winter's  breath  the  air  and  ground 
Thy  time-worn,  leafy  locks  seem  all  around, 
Like  mine,  to  whiten  with  old  age's  snow, 
Now  that  thy  sunny  banks,  where  late  did  grow 
The  painted  flowers,  in  frost  and  ice  are  bound. 
As  I  go  musing  on  the  dim,  brief  light 
That  still  of  life  remain,  then  I,  too,  feel 
The  creeping  cold  my  limbs  and  spirits  thrill ; 
But  I  with  sharper  frost  than  thine  congeal ; 
Since  ruder  winds  my  winter  brings,  and  nights 
Of  greater  length,  and  days  more  scant  and  chill. 
Anonymous  Translation.  GIOVANNI  DELLA  CASA,  1503-1556. 


LEAVES    HAVE    THEIR    TIME    TO    FALL 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- wind's  breath. 

And  stars  to  set — but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh !  Death. 

Day  is  for  mortal  care  ; 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth ; 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer— 
But  all  for-thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth. 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth,  and  song,  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  of  grief's  overwhelming  power, 
A  time  for  softer  tears — but  all  are  thine. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee — but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  blooni  to  seize  their  prey. 


THE      FOREST.  209 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set,  but  all — 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  !  Death. 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane — 
When  summer-birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea — 

When  autumn's  hue  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain- 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Conies  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  path  grow  pale  ? 
They  have  one  season— all  are  ours  to  die ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam — 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home, 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth  to  meet  thee  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm,  at  rest ; 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set,  but  all — 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  oh  !  Death. 

FELICIA  HKMANS. 


SONNET. 

Thrice  happy  he  who  by  some  shady  grove, 

Far  from  the  clamorous  world,  doth  live  his  own ; 

Though  solitary,  who  is  not  alone, 
But  doth  converse  with  that  Eternal  Love. 
0  how  more  sweet  is  bird's  harmonious  moan, 

Or  the  hoarse  sobbings  of  the  widow'd  dove, 
Than  those  smooth  whisperings  near  a  prince's  throne, 

Which  good  make  doubtful,  do  the  ill  approve ! 
0  how  more  sweet  is  zephyr's  wholesome  breath, 


210  THE      FOREST. 

And  sighs  embalm'd,  which  new-born  flowers  unfold, 
Than  that  applause  vain  honor  doth  bequeath ! 

How  sweet  are  streams,  to  poisons  drank  in  gold ! 
The  world  is  full  of  horrors,  troubles,  slights ; 
Woods'  harmless  shades  have  only  true  delights. 

WILLIAM  DETTMMOND,  15S5-1649. 


XIII. 


girts. 


LINES 


JITIES   OF   THE   WORLD.' 


WELCOME,  pure  thoughts,  welcome,  ye  silent  groves— 
These  guests,  these  courts,  my  soul  most  dearly  loves  : 
Now  the  wing'd  people  of  the  sky  shall  sing 
My  cheerful  anthems  to  the  gladsome  spring. 

SIR  HKNBT  WOTTON,  1568-1639. 


FLIGHT    OF    CRANES 


A    KIMII.K    FROM    HOMER. 


As  when  of  many  sorts  the  long-neck'd  fowl 

Unto  the  large  and  flowing  plain  repair, 
Through  which  Cayster's  waters  gently  roll, 

In  multitudes — high  flying  in  the  air, 
Now  here,  now  there  fly,  priding  on  their  wing, 

And  by-and-by  at  once  light  on  the  ground, 
And  with  their  clamor  make  the  air  to  ring, 

And  th'  earth  whereon  they  settle  to  resound ; 


212  BIRDS. 

So  when  the  Achaians  went  up  from  the  fleet, 

And  on  their  march  were  to  the  towers  of  Troy, 
The  earth  resounded  loud  with  hoofs  and  feet. 

But  on  Scamander's  flowery  bank  they  stray, 
In  number  like  the  flowers  of  the  field, 

Or  leaves  ia  spring,  or  multitude  of  flies 
In  some  great  dairy,  round  the  vessels  filled, 

Delighted  with  the  milk,  dance,  fall,  and  rise. 

Translated  ly  HOBKKS. 


THE    SWALLOW    AND    THE     GRASSHOPPER. 

FKOM    THE   (5REKK,   450    B.  C. 

Attic  maiden — honey-fed — 

Chirping  warbler,  bear'st  away 
Thou  the  chirping  grasshopper, 

To  thy  callow  young  a  prey  ? 
Warbling  thou — a  warbler  seize, 

Winged-one  with  lovely  wings  ! 
Guest  thyself — by  summer  brought — 

Fellow-guest,  whom  summer  brings ! 
Will  not  quickly  let  it  drop  ? 

'Tis  not  fair — indeed,  'tis  wrong, 
That  the  ceaseless  songster  should 

Die  by  mouth  of  ceaseless  song  ! 

Translation  of  G.  TKEVOR. 


THE    SAME 

ANOTHER   TRANSLATION. 

Attic  maiden,  breathing  still 

Of  the  fragrant  flowers  that  blow 

On  Hymettus'  purple  hill, 

Whence  the  streams  of  honey  flow. 

Wherefore  thus  a  captive  bear 

To  your  nest  the  grasshopper  ? 

Noisy  prattler,  cease  to  do 

To  your  fellow-prattler  wrong ; 

Kind  should  not  its  kind  pursue — 
Least  of  all  the  heirs  of  song. 

Prattler,  seek  some  other  food 

For  your  noisy,  prattling  brood. 


BIRDS.  213 

Both  are  ever  on  the  wing, 

Wanderers  both  in  foreign  bowers ; 
Both  succeed  the  parting  spring, 

Both  depart  with  summer  hours. 
Those  who  love  the  minstrel  lay 
Should  not  on  each  other  prey. 

Translation  of  G.  MERIVALE. 


SONG    OF    THE    SWALLOW. 

FROM  THE  GREEK. 

Sung  ~by  the  Children,  passing  from  Door  to  Door,  at  the  Return  of  the  Swallow. 

The  swallow  is  come ! 

The  swallow  is  come  ! 
He  brings  us  the  season  of  vernal  delight, 
With  his  back  all  of  sable,  and  belly  of  white. 

Have  you  nothing  to  spare, 

That  his  palate  would  please — 

A  fig,  or  a  pear, 

Or  a  slice  of  rich  cheese  ? 

Mark,  he  bars  all  delay  : 

At  a  word,  my  friend,  say, 

Is  it  yes,  is  it  nay  ? 

Do  we  go  ?  do  we  stay  ? 

One  gift,  and  we're  gone  : 

Refuse,  and  anon, 

On  your  gate  and  your  door 

All  our  fury  we  pour  ; 

Or  our  strength  shall  be  tried 

On  your  sweet  little  bride  ; 

From  her  seat  we  will  tear  her, 

From  her  home  we  will  bear  her ; 

She  is  light,  and  will  ask 

But  small  hands  for  the  task. 

Let  your  bounty  then  lift 

A  small  aid  to  our  mirth, 

And  whate'er  the  gift, 

Let  its  size  speak  its  worth. 

The  swallow,  the  swallow, 

Upon  you  doth  Wait ; 

An  alms-man  and  suppliant, 

He  stands  at  your  gate ; 

Let  him  in  then,  I  say, 


214 


BIRDS 


For  no  gray-beards  are  we, 

To  be  foiled  in  our  glee  ; 

But  boys  who  will  have  our  own  way. 

Translation,  of  MITCHELL 


SWALLOWS. 

FROM    "  8ALMONIA." 

Hal.  While  we  have  been  conversing,  the  May-flies,  which  were  in 
such  quantities,  have  become  much  fewer ;  and  I  believe  the  reason  is, 
that  they  have  been  greatly  diminished  by  the  flocks  of  swallows  which 
everywhere  pursue  them.  I  have  seen  a  single  swallow  take  four,  in 
less  than  a  quarter  of  a  minute,  that  were  descending  to  the  water. 

Poict.  I  delight  in  this  living  landscape  !  The  swallow  is  one  of  my 
favorite  birds,  and  a  rival  of  the  nightingale ;  for  he  cheers  my  sense 
of  seeing  as  much  as  the  other  does  my  sense  of  hearing.  He  is  the  glad 
prophet  of  the  year — the  harbinger  of  the  best  season  :  he  lives  a  life 
of  enjoyment  among  the  loveliest  forms  of  Nature.  Winter  is  unknown 
to  him ;  and  he  leaves  the  green  meadows  of  England,  in  autumn,  for  the 
myrtle  and  orange  groves  of  Italy,  and  for  the  palms  of  Africa.  He  has 
always  objects  of  pursuit,  and  his  success  is  secure.  Even  the  beings 
selected  for  his  prey  are  poetical,  beautiful,  and  transient.  The  ephem- 
erae are  saved  by  his  means  from  a  slow  and  lingering  death  in  the 
evening,  and  killed  in  a  moment,  when  they  have  known  nothing  of  life 
but  pleasure.  He  is  the  constant  destroyer  of  insects — the  friend  of 
man;  and,  with  the  stork  and  ibis,  may  be  regarded  as  a  sacred  bird. 
This  instinct,  which  gives  him  his  appointed  seasons,  and  teaches  him 
always  when  and  where  to  move,  may  be  regarded  as  flowing  from  a 
Divine  Source ;  and  he  belongs  to  the  Oracles  of  Nature,  which  speak 
the  awful  and  intelligible  language  of  a  present  Deity. 

SIB  HUMPHREY  DAVY. 


LINES 

FROM    "  THE   POLYOLBION." 

When  Phoebus  lifts  his  head  out  of  the  winter's  wave, 
No  sooner  doth  the  earth  her  flowery  bosom  brave ; 
At  such  time  as  the  year  brings  on  the  pleasant  spring, 
But  hunts-up  to  the  morn  the  feather'd  sylvans  sing ; 
And  in  the  lower  grove,  as  on  the  rising  knole, 
Upon  the  highest  spray  of  every  mounting  pole 
Those  choristers  are  perch'd,  with  many  a  speckled  breast; 
Then  from  her  burnish'd  gate  the  goodly  glittering  East 


BIRDS.  2  1  ~J 

Gilds  every  lofty  top,  which  late  the  humorous  night 
Bespangled  had  with  pearl,  to  please  the  morning's  sight ; 
On  which  the  mirthful  choirs,  with  their  clear,  open  throats, 
Unto  the  joyful  morn  so  strain  their  warbling  notes, 
That  hills  and  valleys  ring,  and  even  the  echoing  air 
Seems  all  composed  of  sounds  about  them  everywhere. 

MICHAEL  DRAYTON,  1563-163t. 


THE    BLACK    COCK. 

Good -morrow  to  thy  sable  beak, 
And  glossy  plumage,  dark  and  sleek — 
Thy  crimson  moon  and  azure  eye — 
Cock  of  the  heath,  so  wildly  shy  ! 
I  see  thee  slowly  cowering  through 
That  wiry  web  of  silver  dew, 
That  twinkles  in  the  morning  air, 
Like  casement  of  my  lady  fair. 

A  maid  there  is  in  yonder  tower, 
Who.  peeping  from  her  early  bower, 
Half  shows,  like  thee,  with  simple  wile, 
Her  braided  hair  and  morning  smile. 
The  rarest  things,  with  wayward  will, 
Beneath  the  covert  hide  them  still ; 
The  rarest  things,  to  light  of  day 
Look  shortly  forth,  and  break  away. 

One  fleeting  moment  of  delight 
I  warmed  me  in  her  cheering  sight, 
And  short,  I  ween,  the  time  will  be 
That  I  shall  parley  hold  with  thee. 
Through  Snowdon's  mist  red  beams  the  day  ; 
The  climbing  herd-boy  chants  his  lay ; 
The  gnat-flies  dance  their  sunny  ring ; 
Thou  art  already  on  the  wing. 

JOANNA  BAULIK. 


TO    THE    MOCKING-BIRD. 

Wing'd  mimic  of  the  woods !  thou  motley  fool, 
Who  shall  thy  gay  buffoonery  describe  ? 

Thine  ever-ready  notes  of  ridicule 

Pursue  thy  fellows  still  with  jest  and  gibe  : 
Wit,  sophist,  songster,  Yorick  of  thy  tribe, 


218  BIRDS. 

Thou  sportive  satirist  of  Nature's  school, 

To  thee  the  palm  of  scoffing  we  ascribe, 
Arch  mocker,  and  mad  Abbot  of  Mis- Rule  ! 

For  such  thou  art  by  day — but  all  night  long 
Thou  pour'st  a  soft,  sweet,  pensive,  solemn  strain, 

As  if  thou  didst  in  this  thy  moonlight  song 
Like  to  the  melancholy  Jacques  complain — 

Musing  on  falsehood,  folly,  vice,  and  wrong. 
And  sighing  for  thy  motley  coat  again. 

HICHARD  HENRY  WILDE. 


THE    BOB-0-LINKUM. 

Thou  vocal  sprite — thou  feathered  troubadour  ! 

In  pilgrim  weeds  through  many  a  clime  a  ranger, 
Com'st  thou  to  doff  thy  russet  suit  once  more, 

And  play  in  foppish  trim  the  masking  stranger  ? 
Philosophers  may  teach  thy  whereabout  and  nature, 

But,  wise  as  all  of  us,  perforce,  must  think  'em. 
The  school-boy  best  hath  fix'd  thy  nomenclature, 

And  poets,  too,  must  call  thee  *'  Bob-o-linkum  !" 

Say,  art  thou  long  'mid  forest  glooms  benighted, 

So  glad  to  skim  our  laughing  meadows  over — 
With  our  gay  orchards  here  so  much  delighted, 

It  makes  thee  musical,  thou  airy  rover  ? 
Or  are  those  buoyant  notes  the  pilfer'd  treasure 

Of  fairy  isles,  which  thou  hast  learn'd  to  ravish 
Of  all  their  sweetest  minstrelsy  at  pleasure, 

And,  Ariel-like,  again  on  men  to  lavish  ? 

They  tell  sad  stories  of  thy  mad-cap  freaks, 

Wherever  o'er  the  land  thy  pathway  ranges  ; 
And  even  in  a  brace  of  wandering  weeks, 

They  say  alike  thy  song  and  plumage  changes ; 
These  both  are  gay  ;  and  when  the  buds  put  forth, 

And  leafy  June  is  shading  rock  and  river, 
Thou  art  unmatch'd,  blithe  war  bier  of  the  North, 

While  through  the  balmy  air  thy  clear  notes  quiver. 

Joyous,  yet  tender,  was  that  gush  of  song, 

Caught  from  the  brooks,  where  'mid  its  wild  flowers  smiling, 
The  silent  prairie  listens  all  day  long, 

The  only  captive  to  such  sweet  beguiling ; 


BIRDS.  217         _ 

Or  didst  thou,  flitting  through  the  verdurous  halls, 
And  column'd  isles  of  western  groves  symphonious, 

Learn  from  the  tuneful  woods  rare  madrigals, 
To  make  our  flowering  pastures  here  harmonious  ? 

Caught'st  thou  thy  carol  from  Ottawa  maid, 

Where  through  the  liquid  fields  of  wild  rice  plashing — 
Brushing  the  ears  from  off  the  burden'd  blade, 

Her  birch  canoe  o'er  some  lone  lake  is  flashing  ? 
Or  did  the  reeds  of  some  savanna  South , 

Detain  thee  while  thy  northern  flight  pursuing, 
To  place  those  melodies  in  thy  sweet  mouth, 

The  spice-fed  winds  had  taught  them  in  their  wooing  ? 

Unthrifty  prodigal !  is  no  thought  of  ill 

Thy  ceaseless  roundelay  disturbing  ever  ? 
Or  doth  each  pulse  in  choiring  cadence  still 

Throb  on  in  music  till  at  rest  forever  ? 
Yet  now  in  'wilder'd  maze  of  concord  floating, 

'Twould  seem  that  glorious  hymning  to  prolong, 
Old  Time,  in  hearing  thee,  might  fall  a-doating, 

And  pause  to  listen  to  thy  rapturous  song  ! 

FENNO  HOFFMAN. 


THE     OWL. 

High  rides  the  moon  amid  the  fleecy  clouds, 

That  glisten  as  they  float  athwart  her  disk  ; 

Sweet  is  the  glimpse  that  for  a  moment  plays 

Among  these  mouldering  pinnacles ;  but  hark 

That  dismal  cry !  it  is  the  wailing  owl, 

Night  long  she  mourns,  perched  in  some  vacant  niche, 

Or  time-rent  crevice  ;   sometimes  to  the  woods 

She  bends  her  silent,  sloVly-moving  wing, 

And  on  some  leafless  tree,  dead  of  old  age, 

Sits  watching  for  her  prey  ;  but  should  the  foot 

Of  man  intrude  into  her  solemn  shades, 

Startled,  he  hears  the  fragile,  breaking  branch 

Crash  as  she  rises ;  farther  in  the  gloom 

To  deeper  solitude  she  wings  her  way. 

RRV.  JAMES  ORAIIAME. 
10 


218  BIRDS. 


EXTRACT. 

FROM  "  JOURNAL  OF  A  NATURALIST." 

Rural  sounds,  the  voices,  the  language  of  the  wild  creatures,  as  heard 
by  the  naturalist,  belong  to,  and  are  in  concord  with,  the  country  only. 
Our  sight,  our  smell  may  perhaps  be  deceived  for  an  interval  by  con- 
servatories, horticultural  arts,  and  bowers  of  sweets ;  but  our  hearing 
can  in  no  way  be  beguiled  by  any  semblance  of  what  is  heard  in  the 
grove  or  the  field,  The  hum,  the  murmur,  the  medley  of  the  mead,  is 
peculiarly  its  own,  admits  of  no  imitation,  and  the  voices  of  our  birds 
convey  particular  intimation,  and  distinctly  notify  the  various  periods 
of  the  year  with  an  accuracy  as  certain  as  they  are  detailed  in  our  cal- 
endars. The  season  of  spring  is  always  announced  as  approaching  by 
the  notes  of  the  rookery,  by  the  jingle  or  wooing  accents  of  the  dark 
frequenters  of  the  trees;  and  that  time  having  passed  away,  these  con- 
tentions and  cadences  are  no  longer  heard.  The  cuckoo  then  comes  and 
informs  us  that  spring  has  arrived ;  that  he  has  journeyed  to  see  us, 
borne  by  gentle  gales  in  sunny  days ;  that  fragrant  flowers  are  in  the 
copse  and  the  mead,  and  all  things  telling  of  gratulation  and  of  joy ; 
the  children  mark  this  well-known  sound,  spring  out,  and  cuckoo  ! 
cuckoo !  as  they  gambol  down  the  lane ;  the  very  plow-boy  bids  him 
welcome  in  early  morn.  It  is  hardly  spring  without  the  cuckoo's  song  : 
and,  having  told  his  tale,  he  has  voice  for  no  more — is  silent  or  away. 
Then  comes  the  dark,  swift-winged  marten,  glancing  through  the  air, 
that  seems  afraid  to  visit  our  uncertain  clime ;  he  comes,  though  late, 
and  hurries  through  his  business  here  eager  again  to  depart,  all  day  long 
in  agitation  and  precipitate  flight.  The  bland  zephyrs  of  the  spring 
have  no  charms  for  them ;  but  basking  and  careering  in  the  sultry 
gleams  of  June  and  July,  they  associate  in  throngs,  and,  screaming, 
dash  round  the  steeple  or  the  ruined  tower,  to  serenade  their  nesting 
mates;  and  glare  and  heat  are  in  their  train.  When  the  fervor  of 
summer  ceases,  this  bird  of  the  sun  will  depart.  The  evening  robin, 
from  the  summit  of  some  leafless  bough  or  projecting  point,  tells  us  that 
autumn  is  come,  and  brings  matured  fruits,  chilly  airs,  and  sober  hours ; 
and  he,  the  lonely  minstrel  that  now  sings,  is  understood  by  all.  These 
four  birds  thus  indicate  a  separate  season,  have  no  interference  with  the 
intelligence  of  the  other,  nor  could  they  be  transposed  without  the  loss 
of  all  the  meaning  they  convey,  which  no  contrivance  of  art  could  sup- 
ply ;  and,  by  long  association,  they  have  become  identified  with  the  pe- 
riod, and  in  peculiar  accordance  with  the  time. 

J.  L.  KNAPP. 


IRDS.  219 


THE    PATTICHAP'S    NEST. 

Well !  in  my  many  walks  I've  rarely  found 

A  place  less  likely  for  a  bird  to  form 

Its  nest ;  close  by  the  rut-gulled  wagon-road, 

And  on  the  almost  bare  foot-trodden  ground, 

With  scarce  a  clump  of  grass  to  keep  it  warm, 

Where  not  a  thistle  spreads  its  spears  abroad, 

Or  prickly  bush  to  shield  it  from  harm's  way  ; 

And  yet  so  snugly  made,  that  none  may  spy 

It  out,  save  peradventure.     You  and  I 

Had  surely  passed  it  in  our  walk  to-day, 

Had  chance  not  led  us  by  it !     Nay,  e'en  now, 

Had  not  the  old  bird  heard  us  trampling  by, 

And  fluttered  out,  we  had  not  seen  it  lie 

Brown  as  the  roadway  side.     Small  bits  of  hay 

Pluck'd  from  the  old  prop'd  haystack's  pleachy  brow, 

And  withered  leaves,  make  up  its  outward  wall, 

Which  from  the  gnarled  oak-dotterel  yearly  fall, 

And  in  the  old  hedge-bottom  rot  away. 

Built  like  an  oven,  through  a  little  hole, 

Scarcely  admitting  e'en  two  figures  in, 

Hard  to  discern,  the  bird's  snug  entrance  win. 

'Tis  lined  with  feathers,  warm  as  silken  stole, 

Softer  than  seats  of  down  for  painless  ease, 

And  full  of  eggs  scarce  bigger  ev'n  than  pease. 

Here's  one  most  delicate,  with  spots  as  small 

As  dust,  and  of  a  faint  and  pinky  red. 

****** 

A  grasshopper's  green  jump  might  break  the  shells  ; 
Yet  lowing  oxen  pass  them  morn  and  night, 
And  restless  sheep  around  them  hourly  stray. 

JOHN  CLARE 


A    THOUGHT, 


UPON    OCCA8IO> 


Pretty  bird,  how  cheerfully  dost  thou  sit  and  sing,  and  yet  knowest 
not  where  thou  art,  nor  where  thou  shalt  make  thy  next  meal ;  and  at 
night  must  shroud  thyself  in  a  bush  for  lodging  !  What  shame  is  it  for 
me,  that  see  before  me  so  liberal  provisions  of  my  God,  and  find  myself 
sit  warm  under  my  own  roof,  yet.  am  ready  to  droop  under  a  distrustful 
and  unthankful  dullness.  Had  I  so  little  certainty  of  my  harbor  and 


220  BIRDS. 

purveyance,  how  heartless  should  I  be,  how  careful;  how  little  list 
should  I  have  to  make  music  to  thee  or  myself.  Surely  thou  comest  not 
hither  without  a  Providence.  God  sent  thee  not  so  much  to  delight,  as 
to  shame  me,  but  all  in  a  conviction  of  my  sullen  unbelief,  who,  under 
more  apparent  means,  am  less  cheerful  and  confident ;  reason  and  faith 
have  not  done  so  much  in  me,  as  in  thee  mere  instinct  of  nature  ;  want 
of  foresight  makes  thee  more  merry,  if  not  more  happy  here,  than  the 
foresight  of  better  things  maketh  me. 

0  God,  thy  providence  is  not  impaired  by  those  powers  thou  hast  given 
me  above  these  brute  things  ;  let  not  my  greater  helps  hinder  me  from  a 
holy  security  and  comfortable  reliance  on  thee  ! 

BISHOP  HALL,  1574.1656. 


THE    BIRDS    OF    PASSAGE. 

FROM   THE    SWEDISH. 

Behold  !  the  birds  fly 

From  Gauthiod's  strand, 
And  seek  with  a  sigh 

Some  far  foreign  land. 
The  sounds  of  their  woe 

With  hollow  winds  blend  : 
"  Where  now  must  we  go  ? 

Our  flight  whither  tend  ?" 
'Tis  thus  unto  heaven  that  their  wailings  ascend. 

"  The  Scandian  shore 

We  leave  in  despair, 
Our  days  glided  o'er 

So  blissfully  there : 
We  there  built  our  nest 

Among  bright  blooming  trees ; 
There  rock'd  us  to  rest 

The  balm-bearing  breeze ; 
But  now  to  far  lands  we  must  traverse  the  sea. 

"  With  rose-crown  all  bright 

On  tresses  of  gold, 
The  midsummer  night 

It  was  sweet  to  behold  : 
The  calm  was  so  deep, 

So  lovely  the  ray, 
We  could  not  then  sleep, 

But  were  tranced  by  the  spray, 
Till  wakened  by  beams  from  the  bright  car  of  day. 


BIRDS.  221 

"The  trees  gently  bent 

O'er  the  plains  in  repose  ; 
With  dew-drops  besprent 

Was  the  tremulous  rose  ; 
The  oaks  now  are  bare  ; 

The  rose  is  no  more  ; 
The  zephyr's  light  air 

Is  exchanged  for  the  roar 
Of  storms,  and  the  May-fields  have  mantles  of  hoar 

"  Then  why  do  we  stay 

In  the  North,  where  the  sun 
More  dimly  each  day 

His  brief  course  will  run  ? 
And  why  need  we  sigh — 

We  leave  but  a  grave, 
To  cleave  through  the  sky 

On  the  wings  which  God  gave  : 
Then,  Ocean,  we  welcome  the  roar  of  thy  wave  !" 

Of  rest  thus  bereaved, 
They  soar  in  the  air, 
r  But  soon  are  received 

Into  regions  more  fair  ; 
Where  elms  gently  shake 

In  the  zephyr's  light  play, 
Where  rivulets  take 

Among  myrtles  their  way, 
And  the  groves  are  resounding  with  Hope's  happy  lay. 

When  earth's  joys  are  o'er 

And  the  days  darkly  roll,  v 

When  autumn  winds  roar — 

Weep  not,  0  my  soul ! 
Fair  lands  o'er  the  sea 

For  the  birds  brightly  bloom  ; 
A  land  smiles  for  thee, 

Beyond  the  dark  tombv 

Where  beams  never  fading  its  beauties  illume. 
Anonymous  Translation.  ERIC  JOHAN  STAGNKLIUS,  1793-1^23. 


BIRDS. 


THE    DOVE. 


On  an  oak-tree  sat, 
Sat  a  pair  of  doves ; 
And  they  bill'd  and  coo'd, 
And  they  heart  to  heart, 
Tenderly  embraced 
With  their  little  wings ; 
On  them  suddenly 
Darted  down  a  hawk. 

One  he  seized  and  tore, 
Tore  the  little  dove, 
With  his  feathered  feet, 
Soft,  blue  little  dove  ; 
And  he  pour'd  his  blood, 
Streaming  down  the  tree  ; 
Feathers  too  were  strewed 
Widely  o'er  the  field ; 
High  away  the  down 
Floated  in  the  air. 

Ah,  how  wept  and  wept, 
Ah,  how  sobb'd  and  sobb'd 
The  poor  doveling  then 
For  her  little  dove. 

"  Weep  not,  weep  not  so, 
Tender  little  bird !" 
Spake  the  light  young  hawk 
To  the  little  dove. 

"  O'er  the  sea  away, 
O'er  the  far  blue  sea, 
I  will  drive  to  thee 
Flocks  of  other  doves  ; 
From  them  choose  thee  then, 
Choose  a  soft  and  blue, 
With  his  feathered  feet, 
Better  little  dove." 

"  Fly,  thou  villain !  not 
O'er  the  far  blue  sea, 


BIRDS.  223 

Drive  not  here  to  me 
Flocks  of  other  doves. 
Ah  !  of  all  thy  doves 
None  can  comfort  me, 
Only  he,  the  father 
Of  my  little  ones." 

Translated  by  J.  G.  PERCIVAL. 


THE    DYING    SWAN. 

The  plain  was  grassy,  wild,  and  bare, 
Wide,  wild,  and  open  to  the  air, 
Which  had  built  up  everywhere 

An  under-roof  of  doleful  gray. 
With  an  inner  voice  the  river  ran, 
Adown  it  floated  a  dying  swan, 

Which  loudly  did  lament. 

It  was  the  middle  of  the  day. 
Ever  the  weary  wind  went  on 

And  shook  the  reed- tops  as  it  went. 

Some  blue  peaks  in  the  distance  rose, 
And  white  against  the  cold- white  sky 
Shone  out  their  crowning  snows. 

One  willow  over  the  river  wept, 
And  shook  the  wave  as  the  wind  did  sigh  ; 
Above  in  the  wind  was  the  swallow, 
Chasing  itself  at  its  own  wild  will, 
And  far  through  the  marish  green  and  still 

The  tangled  water-courses  slept, 
Shot  over  with  purple,  and  green,  and  yellow. 

The  wild  swan's  death-hymn  took  the  soul 

Of  that  waste  place  with  joy 
Hidden  in  sorrow  ;  at  first  to  the  ear 
The  warble  was  low.  and  full,  and  clear ; 

And  floating  about  the  under-sky, 
Prevailing  in  weakness,  the  coronach  stole 
Sometimes  afar,  and  sometimes  anear  ; 

But  anon  her  awful  jubilant  voice, 
With  a  music  strange  and  manifold, 
Flowed  forth  on  a  carol  free  and  bold ; 

As  when  a  mighty  people  rejoice 
With  shawms,  and  with  cymbals,  and  harps  of  gold, 
And  the  tumult  of  their  acclaim  is  rolled 


224  BIRDS. 

Through  the  open  gates  of  the  city  afar, 

To  the  shepherd  who  watcheth  the  evening  star. 

And  the  creeping  mosses  and  clambering  weeds, 

And  the  willow-branches  hoar  and  dank, 
And  the  wavy  swell  of  the  soughing  reeds, 

And  the  wave- worn  horns  of  the  echoing  bank, 
And  the  silvery  marish  flowers  that  throng, 
The  desolate  creeks  and  pools  among, 
Were  flooded  over  with  eddying  song. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


THE    TWA    CORBIES. 

OLD    SCOTTISH   BALLAD. 

As  I  gaed  doun  by  yon  house-en', 

Twa  corbies  there  were  sittand  their  lane. 

The  tane  unto  the  tother  sae, 

"  0  where  shall  we  gae  dine  to-day  ?" 

"  0  down  beside  yon  new-faun  birk, 

There  lies  a  new-slain  knicht, 

Nae  livin  kens  that  he  lies  there, 

But  his  horse,  his  hounds,  and  his  lady  fair. 

"  His  horse  is  to  the  huntin  gone, 

His  hounds  to  bring  the  wild  deer  hame  ; 

His  lady's  taen  another  mate  ; 

Sae  we  may  make  our  dinner  swate. 

"  0  we'll  sit  on  his  bonnie  briest-bane, 
And  we'll  pyke  out  his  bonnie  grey  e'en  ; 
Wi  ae  lock  o'  his  gowden  hair 
We'll  theek  our  nest  when  it  blaws  bare. 

"  Mony  a  ane  for  him  maks  mane, 
But  nane  sail  ken  where  he  is  gane  ; 
Ower  his  banes,  when  they  are  bare, 
The  wind  sail  blaw  for  evermair  !" 

Anonymous,  about  1600. 


THE    RED-BREAST     IN    SEPTEMBER. 

The  morning  mist  is  clear'd  away, 
Yet  still  the  face  of  heaven  is  gray, 
Nor  yet  th'  autumnal  breeze  has  stirr'd  the  grove, 


BIRDS.  225 

Faded,  yet  full,  a  paler  green 
Skirts  soberly  the  tranquil  scene, 
The  red-breast  warbles  round  this  leafy  cove. 

Sweet  messenger  of  calm  decay, 

Saluting  sorrow  as  you  may, 
As  one  still  bent  to  make,  or  find  the  best, 

In  thee,  and  in  this  quiet  mead 

The  lesson  of  sweet  peace  I  read, 
Rather  in  all  to  be  resign'd  than  blest. 

'Tis  a  low  chant,  according  well 

With  the  soft  solitary  knell, 
As  homeward  from  some  grave  belov'd  we  turn, 

Or  by  some  holy  death -bed  dear, 

Most  welcome  to  the  chasten'd  ear 
Of  her  whom  Heaven  is  teaching  how  to  mourn. 

0  cheerful,  tender  strain  !  the  heart 

That  duly  bears  with  you  its  part, 
Singing  so  thankful  to  the  dreary  blast, 

Though  gone  and  spent  its  joyous  prime, 

And  on  the  world's  autumnal  time 
'Mid  withered  hues,  and  sere,  its  lot  be  cast, 

That  is  the  heart  for  thoughtful  seer, 

Watching,  in  trance  nor  dark  nor  clear, 
Th'  appalling  Future  as  it  nearer  draws ; 

His  spirit  calm'd  the  storm  to  meet, 

Feeling  the  Rock  beneath  his  feet, 
And  tracing  through  the  cloud  th'  eternal  Cause. 

JOHN  KEBLE. 
10* 


XIV. 


THE  "  Fate  of  the  Butterfly"  is  one  of  the  most  charming 
of  Spenser's  lesser  poems  ;  and  as  it  is  seldom  met  with 
on  American  bookshelves,  it  has  been  inserted  entire,  or  at 
least  with  the  exception  of  a  verse  or  two,  in  the  present 
volume. 

Familiar  as  we  are  with  them,  we  seldom  bear  in  mind 
how  much  the  more  pleasing  varieties  of  the  insect  race  add 
"to  the  beauty  and  interest  of  the  earth.  Setting  aside  the 
important  question  of  their  different  uses,  and  the  appropriate 
tasks  allotted  to  each — forgetting  for  the  moment  what  we 
owe  to  the  bee,  and  the  silkworm,  and  the  coral  insect,  with 
others  of  the  same  class — we  are  very  apt  to  underrate  them 
even  as  regards  the  pleasure  and  gratification  they  afford  us. 
The  utter  absence  of  insect  life  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
characteristics  of  our  Northern  American  winters.  Let  us 
suppose  for  a  moment  that  something  of  the  same  kind  were 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  227 

to  mark  one  single  summer  of  our  lives — that  the  hum  of  the 
bee,  the  drone  of  the  beetle,  the -chirrup  of  cricket,  locust,  and 
katydid,  the  noiseless  flight  of  gnat,  moth,  and  butterfly,  and 
the  flash  of  the  firefly,  were  suddenly  to  cease  from  the  days 
and  nights  of  June — suppose  a  magic  sleep  to  fall  upon  them 
all ;  let  their  tiny  but  wonderful  forms  vanish  from  their  usual 
haunts  ;  let  their  ceaseless,  cheery  chant  of  day  and  night 
be  hushed,  should  we  not  be  oppressed  with  the  strange  still- 
ness ?  Should  we  not  look  wistfully  about  for  more  than  one 
familiar  creature  ?  The  gardens  and  the  meadows  would  in 
very  sooth  scarce  seem  themselves  without  this  lesser  world 
of  insect  life,  moving  in  busy,  gay,  unobtrusive  variety  among 
the  plants  they  love  ;  and  we  may  well  believe  that  we  should 
gladly  welcome  back  the  lowliest  of  the  beetles,  and  the  most 
humble  of  the  moths  which  have  so  often  crossed  our  path. 

MUIOPOTMOS; 

OR,    THE    FATE    OF    THE    BUTTERFLIE. 

DEDICATED  TO  THE  MO8T  FAIRE  AND  VKRTUOU8  LADIE,  THH  LADIE  CARET. 

I  sing  of  deadly  dolorous  debate, 
Stir'd  up  through  wrathfull  Nemesis  despight, 
Betwixt  two  mightie  ones  of  great  estate, 
Drawne  into  armes,  and  proofe  of  mortall  fight, 
Through  prowd  ambition  and  hart-swelling  hate, 
Whilst  neither  could  the  others  greater  might 
And  sdeignfull  scorne  endure;  that  from  small  iarre 
Their  wraths  at  length  broke  into  open  warre. 

The  roote  whereof  and  tragicall  effect, 
Vouchsafe,  0  thou  the  mournfulst  Muse  of  nyne, 
That  wont'st  the  tragick  stage  for  to  direct, 
In  funerall  complaints  and  wailefull  tyne, 
Reveale  to  me,  and  all  the  meanes  detect, 
Through  which  sad  Clarion  did  at  last  decline 
To  lowest  wretchednes  :  And  is  there  then 
Such  rancour  in  the  harts  of  mightie  men  ? 

Of  all  the  race  of  silver- winged  Flies 
Which  doo  possesse  the  empire  of  the  aire, 
Betwixt  the  centred  earth,  and  azure  skies, 
Was  none  more  favourable,  nor  more  faire, 


228  THE      BUTTERFLY. 

Whilst  heaven  did  favour  his  felicities, 
Than  Clarion,  the  eldest  sonne  and  heire 
Of  Muscaroll,  and  in  his  fathers  sight 
Of  all  alive'  did  seeme  the  fairest  wight. 

With  fruitfull  hope  his  aged  breast  he  fed 
Of  future  good,  which  his  young  toward  yeares, 
Full  of  brave  courage  and  bold  hardyhed 
Above  th'  ensample  of  his  equall  Peares, 
Did  largely  promise,  and  to  him  fore-red, 
(Whilst  oft  his  heart  did  melt  in  tender  teares,) 
That  he  in  time  would  sure  prove  such  an  one, 
As  should  be  worthie  of  his  fathers  throne. 

The  fresh  young  Flie,  in  whom  the  kindly  fire 
Of  lustful  yongth  began  to  kindle  fast, 
Did  much  disdaine  to  subiect  his  desire 
To  loathsome  sloth,  or  houres  in  ease  to  wast, 
But  ioy'd  to  range  abroad  in  fresh  attire, 
Through  the  wide  compas  of  the  ayrie  coast ; 
And,  with  unwearied  wings,  each  part  t'  inquire 
Of  the  wide  rule  of  his  renowned  sire. 

For  he  so  swift  and  nimble  was  of  flight, 

That  from  this  lower  tract  he  dar'd  to  stie 

Up  to  the  clowdes,  and  thence  with  pineons  light 

To  mount  aloft  unto  the  cristall  skie, 

To  view  the  workmanship  of  heavens  hight : 

Whence  down  descending  he  along  would  flie 

Upon  the  streaming  rivers,  sport  to  finde  ; 

And  oft  would  dare  to  tempt  the  troublous  winde. 

So  on  a  summers  day,  when  season  milde 
With  gentle  calme  the  world  had  quieted, 
And  high  in  heaven  Hyperion's  fierie  childe 
Ascending  did  his  beames  dispred, 
Whiles  all  the  heavens  on  lower  creatures  smilde  ; 
Young  Clarion,  with  vauntfull  lustiehed, 
After  his  guize  did  cast  abroad  to  fare  ; 
And  thereto  gan  his  furnitures  prepare. 

His  bre,ast-plate  first,  that  was  of  substance  pure, 
Before  his  noble  heart  he  firmely  bound, 
That  mought  his  life  from  yron  death  assure, 
And  ward  his  gentle  corps  from  cruell  wound  : 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  229 

For  by  it  arte  was  framed,  to  endure 
The  bit  of  balefull  steele  and  bitter  stownd, 
No  lesse  than  that  which  Vulcane  made  to  shield 
Achilles  life  from  fate  of  Troyan  field. 

And  then  about  his  shoulders  broad  he  threw 

An  hairie  hide  of  some  wild  beast,  whom  hee 

In  salvage  forrest  by  adventure  slew, 

And  reft  the  spoyle  his  ornament  to  bee  ; 

Which,  spredding  all  his  backe  with  dreadfull  view, 

Made  all,  that  him  so  horrible  did  see. 

Thinke  him  Alcides  with  the  Lyons  skin, 

When  the  Nsemean  conquest  he  did  win. 

Upon  his  head  his  glistering  burganet, 
The  which  was  wrought  by  wonderous  device, 
And  curiously  engraven,  he  did  set  : 
The  metall  was  of  rare  and  passing  price ; 
Not  Bilbo  steele,  nor  brasse  from  Corinth  fet, 
Nor  costly  oricalche  from  strange  Phoenice ; 
But  such  as  could  both  Phoebus  arrowes  ward, 
And  th'  hayling  darts  of  heaven  beating  hard. 

Therein  two  deadly  weapons  fixt  he  bore, 
Strongly  outlaunced  towards  either  side, 
Like  two  sharpe  speares,  his  enemies  to  gore  : 
Like  as  a  warlike  brigandine,  applyde 
To  fight,  layes  forth  her  threatfull  pikes  afore, 
The  engines  which  in  them  sad  death  doo  hyde : 
So  did  this  Flie  outstretch  his  fearfull  homes, 
Yet  so  as  him  their  terrour  more  adornes. 

Lastly  his  shinie  wings  as  silver  bright, 
Painted  with  thousand  colours  passing  farre 
All  painters  skill,  he  did  about  him  dight : 
Not  halfe  so  manie  sundrie  colours  arre 
In  Iris  bowe  ;  ne  heaven  doth  shine  so  bright, 
Distinguished  witli  manie  a  twinckling  starre  ; 
Nor  lunoes  bird,  in  her  ey-spotted  traine, 
So  many  goodly  colours  doth  containe. 

Ne  (may  it  be  withouten  perill  spoken) 
The  Archer  god,  the  sonne  of  Cytheree, 
That  ioyes  on  wretched  lovers  to  be  wroken, 
And  heaped  spoyles  of  bleeding  harts  to  see, 


230  THE      BUTTERFLY. 

Beares  in  his  wings  so  manie  a  changefull  token. 
Ah  !  my  liege  Lord,  forgive  it  unto  mee, 
If  ought  against  thine  honour  I  have  tolde  ; 
Yet  sure  those  wings  were  fairer  manifolde. 

Full  many  a  Ladie  faire,  in  Court  full  oft 
Beholding  them,  him  secretly  envide, 
And  wisht  that  two  such  fannes,  so  silken  soft, 
And  golden  faire,  her  Love  would  her  provide  ; 
Or  that,  when  them  the  gorgeous  Flie  had  doft, 
Some  one,  that  would  with  grace  be  gratifide, 
From  him  would  steal  them  privily  away, 
And  bring  to  her  so  precious  a  pray. 

Eeport  is  that  dame  Venus  on  a  day, 

In  spring  when  flowres  doo  clothe  the  fruitfull  ground, 

Walking  abroad  with  all  her  nymphes  to  play, 

Bad  her  faire  damzels  nocking  her  arownd 

To  gather  flowres,  her  forhead  to  array  : 

Emongst  the  rest  a  gentle  Nymph  was  found, 

Hight  Astery,  excelling  all  the  crewe 

In  curteous  usage  and  unstained  hewe. 

Who  beeing  nimbler  ioynted  then  the  rest, 
And  more  industrious,  gathered  more  store 
Of  the  fields  honour,  than  the  others  best ; 
Which  they  in  secret  harts  envying  sore, 
Tolde  Venus,  when  her  as  the  worthiest 
She  praisd,  that  Cupide  (as  they  heard  before) 
Did  lend  her  secret  aide,  in  gathering 
Into  her  lap  the  children  of  the  Spring. 

Whereof  the  goddesse  gathering  iealous  feare, 
Not  yet  unmindfull,  how  not  long  agoe 
Her  sonne  to  Psyche  secret  love  did  beare, 
And  long  it  close  concealed,  till  mickle  woe 
Thereof  arose,  and  manie  a  rufull  teare  ; 
Reason  with  sudden  rage  did  overgoe  ; 
And,  giving  hastie  credit  to  th'  accuser, 
Was  led  away  of  them  that  did  abuse  her. 

Eftsoones  that  Damzell,  by  her  heavenly  might, 
She  turn'd  into  a  winged  Butterflie, 
In  the  wide  aire  to  make  her  wandring  flight ; 
And  all  those  flowres,  with  which  so  plenteouslie 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  231 

Her  lap  she  filled  had,  that  bred  her  spight, 

She  placed  in  her  wings,  for  memorie 

Of  her  pretended  crime,  though  crime  none  were  : 

Since  which  that  Flie  them  in  her  wings  doth  beare. 

Thus  the  fresh  Clarion,  being  readie  dight, 
Unto  his  iourney  did  himselfe  addresse, 
And  with  good  speed  began  to  take  his  flight : 
Over  the  fields,  in  his  franke  lustinesse, 
And  all  the  champaine  o're  he  soared  light ; 
And  all  the  count  rey  wide  he  did  possesse, 
Feeding  upon  their  pleasures  bounteouslie, 
That  none  gainsaid,  nor  none  did  him  envie. 

The  woods,  the  rivers,  and  the  meadowes  greene, 
With  his  aire-cutting  wings  he  measured  wide, 
Ne  did  he  leave  the  mountaines  bare  unseene, 
Nor  the  ranke  grassie  fennes  delights  untride. 
But  none  of  these,  how  ever  sweet  they  beene, 
Mote  please  his  fancie,  nor  him  cause  t'  abide  : 
His  choicefull  sense  with  every  change  doth  flit- 
No  common  things  may  please  a  wavering  wit. 

To  the  gay  gardins  his  unstaid  desire 
Him  wholly  caried,  to  refresh  his  sprights  : 
There  lavish  Nature,  in  her  best  attire, 
Powres  forth  sweete  odors  and  alluring  sights ; 
And  Arte,  with  her  contending,  doth  aspire, 
T'  excell  the  naturall  with  made  delights  : 
And  all,  that  faire  or  pleasant  may  be  found, 
In  riotous  excesse  doth  there  abound. 

There  he  arriving,  round  about  doth  flie, 
From  bed  to  bed,  from  one  to  other  border ; 
And  takes  survey,  with  curious  busie  eye, 
Of  every  flowre  and  her  be  there  set  in  order ; 
Now  this,  now  that,  he  tasteth  tenderly, 
Yet  none  of  them  he  rudely  doth  disorder, 
Ne  with  his  feete  their  silken  leaves  deface ; 
But  pastured  on  the  pleasures  of  each  place. 

And  evermore  with  most  varietie, 

And  change  of  sweetnesse,  (for  all  change  is  sweete,) 

He  casts  his  glutton  sense  to  satisfie, 

Now  sucking  of  the  sap  of  herbe  most  meet 


232  THE      BUTTERFLY. 

Or  of  the  deaw,  which  yet  on  them  does  lie, 
Now  in  the  same  bathing  his  tender  feete  : 
And  then  he  pearcheth  on  some  braunch  thereby, 
To  weather  him,  and  his  moyst  wings  to  dry. 

And  then  againe  he  turneth  to  his  play, 
To  spoyle  the  pleasures  of  that  Paradise  ; 
The  wholesome  saulge,  and  lavender  still  gray, 
Ranke  smelling  rue,  and  cummin  good  for  eyes, 
The  roses  raigning  in  the  pride  of  May, 
Sharpe  isope  good  for  greene  wounds  remedies, 
Faire  marigoldes,  and  bees-alluring  thime, 
Sweet  marioram,  and  daysies  decking  prime  : 

Coole  violets,  and  orpine  growing  still, 
Embathed  balme,  and  chearfull  galingale, 
Fresh  costmarie,  and  breathfull  camomill, 
Dull  poppy,  and  drink-quickning  setuale, 
Veyne-healing  verven,  and  hed-purging  dill, 
Sound  savorie,  and  bazil  hartie-hale, 
Fat  colworts,  and  comforting  perseline, 
Cold  lettuce,  and  refreshing  rosmarine. 

And  whatso  else  of  vertue  good  or  ill 
Grewe  in  this  Gardin,  fetcht  from  farre  away, 
Of  everie  one  he  takes,  and  tastes  at  will, 
And  on  their  pleasures  greedily  doth  pray. 
Then  when  he  hath  both  plaid,  and  fed  his  fill, 
In  the  warme  sunne  he  doth  himselfe  embay, 
And  there  him  rests  in  riotous  suffisaunce 
Of  all  his  gladfulnes,  and  kingly  ioyaunce. 

What  more  felicitie  can  fall  to  creature 

Then  to  enioy  delight  with  libertie, 

And  to  be  lord  of  all  the  workes  of  Nature, 

To  raigne  in  th'  aire  from  th'  earth  to  highest  side, 

To  feed  on  flowres  and  weeds  of  glorious  feature, 

To  take  what  ever  thing  doth  please  the  eie  ? 

Who  rests  not  pleased  with  such  happines, 

Well  worthy  he  to  taste  of  wretchednes. 

But  what  on  earth  can  long  abide  in  state  ? 
Or  who  can  him  assure  of  happy  day  ? 
Sith  morning  faire  may  bring  fowle  evening  late, 
And  least  mishap  the  most  blisse  alter  may  ! 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  233 

For  thousand  perills  lie  in  close  awaite 
About  us  day  lie,  to  worke  our  decay ; 
That  none,  except  a  God,  or  God  him  guide, 
May  them  avoyde,  or  remedie  provide. 

And  whatso  heavens  in  their  secret  doome 
Ordained  have,  how  can  frail  fleshly  wight 
Forecast,  but  it  must  needs  to  issue  come  ? 
The  sea,  the  aire,  the  fire,  the  day,  the  night. 
And  th'  armies  of  their  creatures  all  and  some 
Do  serve  to  them,  and  with  importune  might 
Warre  against  us  the  vassals  of  their  will. 
Who  then  can  save  what  they  dispose  to  spill  ? 

Not  thou,  0  Clarion,  though  fairest  thou 

Of  all  thy  kinde,  unhappie  happie  Flie, 

Whose  cruell  fate  is  woven  even  now 

Of  loves  owne  hand,  to  worke  thy  miserie  ! 

Ne  may  thee  help  the  manie  hartie  vow, 

Which  thy  old  sire  with  sacred  pietie 

Hath  powred  forth  for  thee,  and  th'  altars  sprent : 

Nought  may  thee  save  from  heavens  avengement ! 

It  fortuned  (as  heavens  had  behight) 
That  in  this  Gardin,  where  yong  Clarion 
Was  wont  to  solace  him,  a  wicked  wight, 
The  foe  of  faire  things,  th'  author  of  confusion, 
The  shame  of  Nature,  the  bondslave  of  spight, 
Had  lately  built  his  hatefull  mansion  ; 
And,  lurking  closely,  in  awaite  now  lay, 
How  he  might  any  in  his  trap  betray. 

But  when  he  spide  the  ioyous  Butterflie 
In  this  faire  plot  dispacing  to  and  fro, 
Fearles  of  foes  and  hidden  ieopardie, 
Lord  !  how  he  gan  for  to  bestirre  him  tho. 
And  to  his  wicked  worke  each  part  applie  ! 
His  heart  did  earne  against  his  hated  foe, 
And  bowels  so  with  rankling  poyson  swelde, 
That  scarce  the  skin  the  strong  contagion  helde. 

The  cause,  why  he  this  Flie  so  maliced, 
Was  (as  in  stories  it  is  written  found) 
For  that  his  mother,  which  him  bore  and  bred, 
The  most  fine-fingred  workwoman  on  ground, 


234  THE      BUTTERFLY. 

Arachne,  by  his  meanes  was  vanquished 
Of  Pallas,  and  in  her  owne  skill  confound, 
When  she  with  her  for  excellence  contended, 
That  wrought  her  shame,  and  sorrow  never  ended. 

For  the  Tritonian  goddesse  having  hard 

Her  blazed  fame,  which  all  the  world  had  fild, 

Came  downe  to  prove  the  truth,  and  due  reward 

For  her  praise- worthie  workmanship  to  yield  : 

But  the  presumptuous  Damzell  rashly  dar'd 

The  goddesse  selfe  to  chalenge  to  the  field, 

And  to  compare  with  her  in  curious  skill 

Of  workes  with  loome,  with  needle,  and  with  quill. 

Minerva  did  the  chalenge  not  refuse, 

But  deign'd  with  her  the  paragon  to  make  : 

So  to  their  worke  they  sit,  and  each  doth  chuse 

What  storie  she  will  for  her  tapet  take. 

Arachne  figur'd  how  love  did  abuse 

Europa  like  a  Bull,  and  on  his  backe 

Her  through  the  Sea  did  beare  ;  so  lively  scene, 

That  it  true  Sea,  and  true  Bull,  ye  would  weene. 

Shee  seem'd  still  backe  unto  the  land  to  looke, 
And  her  play-fellowes  ayde  to  call,  and  feare 
The  dashing  of  the  waves,  that  up  she  tooke 
Her  daintie  feet,  and  garments  gathered  neare  : 
But  (Lord  !)  how  she  in  everie  member  shooke, 
When  as  the  land  she  saw  no  more  appeare, 
But  a  wilde  wildernes  of  waters  deepe  : 
Then  gan  she  greatly  to  lament  and  weepe. 

Before  the  Bull  she  pictur'd  winged  Love, 
With  his  yong  brother  Sport,  light  fluttering 
Upon  the  waves,  as  each  had  been  a  Dove ; 
The  one  his  bowe  and  shafts,  the  other  Spring 
A  burning  teade  about  his  head  did  move, 
As  in  their  syres  new  love  both  triumphing  : 
And  manie  Nymphes  about  them  flocking  round, 
And  many  Tritons  which  their  homes  did  sound. 

And,  round  about,  her  worke  she  did  empale 
With  a  faire  border  wrought  of  sundrie  flowres, 
Enwoven  with  an  yvie- winding  trayle  : 
A  goodly  worke,  full  fit  for  kingly  bowres ; 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  235 

Such  as  dame  Pallas,  such  as  Envie  pale, 
That  all  good  things  with  venemous  tooth  devowres, 
Could  not  accuse.    Then  gan  the  goddesse  bright 
Her  selfe  likewise  unto  her  work  to  dight. 

She  made  the  storie  of  the  olde  debate, 
Which  she  with  Neptune  did  for  Athens  trie  : 
Twelve  gods  doo  sit  around  in  royall  state, 
And  love  in  midst  with  awfull  maiestie, 
To  iudge  the  strife  betweene  them  stirred  late  : 
Each  of  the  gods,  by  his  like  visnomie 
Eathe  to  be  knowne  ;  but  love  above  them  all, 
By  his  greate  lookes  and  power  imperiall. 

Before  them  stands  the  god  of  Seas  in  place, 

Clayming  that  sea-coast  Citie  as  his  right, 

And  strikes  the  rockes  with  his  three-forked  mace  ; 

Whenceforth  issues  a  warlike  steed  in  sight, 

The  signe  by  which  he  chalengeth  the  place ; 

That  all  the  gods,  which  saw  his  wondrous  might 

Did  surely  deeme  the  victorie  his  due  : 

But  seldome  scene,  foreiudgement  proveth  true. 

Then  to  herselfe  she  gives  her  Aegide  shield, 

And  steel-lied  speare,  and  morion  on  her  hedd, 

Such  as  she  oft  is  seene  in  warlike  field  : 

Then  sets  she  forth,  how  with  her  weapon  dredd 

She  smote  the  ground,  the  which  streight  foorth  did  yield 

A  fruitfull  Olyve  tree,  with  berries  spredd, 

That  all  the  Gods  admir'd  ;  then  all  the  storie 

She  compast  with  a  wreathe  of  Olyves  hoarie. 

Emongst  these  leaves  she  made  a  Butterflie, 
With  excellent  device  and  wondrous  slight, 
Fluttring  among  the  Olives  wantonly, 
That  seem'd  to  live,  so  like  it  was  in  sight : 
The  velvet  nap  which  on  his  wings  doth  lie, 
The  silken  downe  with  which  his  backe  is  dight, 
His  broad  outstretched  homes,  his  hayrie  thies, 
His  glorious  colours,  and  his  glistering  eies. 

Which  when  Arachne  saw,  as  overlaid, 
And  mastered  with  workmanship  so  rare, 
She  stood  astonied  long,  ne  ought  gainesaid  ; 
And  with  fast  fixed  eyes  on  her  did  stare, 


236  THE      BUTTERFLY. 

And  by  her  silence,  signe  of  one  dismaid, 
The  victorie  did  yeeld  her  as  her  share  ; 
Yet  did  she  inly  fret  and  felly  burne, 
And  all  her  blood  to  poysonous  rancor  turne  : 

That  shortly  from  the  shape  of  womanhed, 
Such  as  she  was  when  Pallas  she  attempted, 
She  grew  to  hideous  shape  of  dryrihed, 
Pined  with  griefe  of  folly  late  repented  : 
Eftsoones  her  white  streight  legs  were  altered 
To  crooked  crawling  shankes,  of  marrowe  empted 
And  her  faire  face  to  foule  and  loathsome  hewe, 
And  her  fine  corpes  to  a  bag  of  venim  grewe. 

This  cursed  creature,  mindfull  of  that  olde 
Enfested  grudge,  the  which  his  mother  felt, 
So  soon  as  Clarion  he  did  beholde, 
His  heart  with  vengefull  malice  inly  swelt ; 
And  weaving  straight  a  net  with  manie  a  fold 
About  the  cave,  in  which  he  lurking  dwelt, 
With  fine  small  cords  about  it  stretched  wide, 
So  finely  sponne,  that  scarce  they  could  be  spide. 

Not  anie  damzell,  which  her  vaunteth  most 
In  skilfull  knitting  of  soft  silken  twyne  : 
Nor  anie  weaver,  which  his  worke  doth  boast 
In  diaper,  in  damaske,  or  in  lyne  ; 
Nor  anie  skil'd  in  workmanship  embost ; 
Nor  anie  skil'd  in  loupes  of  fingring  fine ; 
Might  in  their  divers  cunning  ever  dare 
With  this  so  curious  networke  to  compare. 


This  same  he  did  applie 
For  to  entrap  the  careles  Clarion, 
That  rang'd  eachwhere  without  suspition. 

Suspition  of  friend,  nor  feare  of  foe, 
That  hazarded  his  health,  had  he  at  all. 
But  walkt  at  will,  and  wandred  to  and  fro, 
In  the  pride  of  his  freedome  principall : 
Little  wist  he  his  fatall  future  woe, 
But  was  secure  ;  the  liker  he  to  fall. 
He  likest  is  to  fall  into  mischaunce, 
That  is  regardles  of  his  governaunce. 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  237 

Yet  still  Aragnoll  (so  his  foe  was  hight) 
Lay  lurking  covertly  him  to  surprise  ; 
And  all  his  gins,  that  him  entangle  might, 
Drest  in  good  order  as  he  could  devise. 
At  length,  the  foolish  Flie  without  foresight, 
As  he  that  did  all  daunger  quite  despise, 
Toward  those  parts  came  flying  carelesselie, 
Where  hidden  was  his  hatefull  enemie. 

Who,  seeing  him,  with  secret  ioy  therefore 

Did  tickle  inwardly  in  everie  vaine  ; 

And  his  false  hart,  fraught  with  all  treasons  store, 

Was  fill'd  with  hope  his  purpose  to  obtaine  : 

Himselfe  he  close  upgathered  more  and  more 

Into  his  den,  that  his  deceitfull  traine 

By  his  there  being  might  not  be  bewraid, 

Ne  anie  noyse,  ne  anie  motion  made. 

Like  as  a  wily  foxe,  that,  having  spide 
Where  on  a  sunnie  banke  the  lambes  doo  play, 
Full  closely  creeping  by  the  hinder  side, 
Lyes  in  ambushment  of  his  hoped  pray, 
Ne  stirreth  limbe ;  till,  seeing  readie  tide, 
He  rusheth  forth,  and  snatcheth  quite  away 
One  of  the  litle  yonglings  unawares : 
So  to  his  worke  Aragnoll  him  prepares. 

Who  now  shall  give  unto  my  heavie  eyes 
A  well  of  teares,  that  all  may  overflow  ? 
Or  where  shall  I  find  lamentable  cryes, 
And  mournfull  tunes,  enough  my  griefe  to  show  ? 
Helpe,  0  thou  Tragick  Muse,  me  to  devise 
Notes  sad  enough,  t'  expresse  this  bitter  throw : 
For  loe,  the  drerie  stownd  is  now  arrived, 
That  of  all  happines  hath  us  deprived. 

The  luckles  Clarion,  whether  cruell  Fate 
Or  wicked  Fortune  faultles  him  misled, 
Or  some  ungracious  blast  out  of  the  gate 
Of  Aeoles  raine  perforce  him  drove  on  hed, 
Was  (0  sad  hap  and  howre  unfortunate  !) 
With  violent  swift  flight  forth  caried 
Into  the  cursed  cobweb,  which  his  foe 
Had  framed  for  his  finall  overthroe. 


238  THE      BUTTERFLY. 

There  the  fond  File,  entangled,  strugled  long, 
Himselfe  to  free  thereout ;  but  all  in  vaine. 
For,  striving  more,  the  more  in  laces  strong 
Himselfe  he  tide,  and  wrapt  his  winges  twaine 
In  lymie  snares  the  subtill  loupes  among  ; 
That  in  the  ende  he  breathlesse  did  remaine, 
And.  all  his  yongthly  forces  idly  spent, 
Him  to  the  mercie  of  th'  avenger  lent. 

Which  when  the  greisly  tyrant  did  espie, 
Like  a  grimme  lyon  rushing  with  fierce  might 
Out  of  his  den,  he  seized  greedelie 
On  the  resistles  pray  ;  and,  with  fell  spight, 
Under  the  left  wing  strooke  his  weapon  slie 
Into  his  heart,  that  his  deepe  groning  spright 
In  bloodie  streams  forth  fled  into  the  aire, 
His  bodie  left  the  spectacle  of  care. 

GLOSSARY. —  Tyne,  affliction ;  yongth,  youth;  stie,  mount;  stoivnd, 
blow;  burganet,  helmet;  wroken,  avenged;  doft,  taken  off;  hight, 
called  ;  mickle,  much  ;  eftsoones,  immediately ;  embay,  bathe  ;  suffi- 
saunce,  excess;  sprent,  sprinkled;  earne,  yearn;  spring,  springal, 
youth  ;  teade,  torch  ;  eathe,  ease  ;  dryrihed,  drearyhead  ;  lyne,  linen ; 

drerie  stownd,  dismal  hour. 

EDMUND  SPENSER,  1553-1598. 

ON    A    LOCUST. 

FROM   THE    (iliKKK    OP    MNASALCUS. 

Oh,  never  more,  sweet  locust, 

Shalt  thou  with  shrilly  wing, 
Along  the  fertile  furrows  sit 

And  thy  gladsome  carols  sing  ; 
Oh,  never  more  thy  nimble  wings 

Shall  cheer  this  heart  of  mine, 
With  sweetest  melody,  while  I 

Beneath  the  trees  recline. 

Translation  of  W.  HAY. 

TO    THE    CICADA. 

FROM   THE   GREEK   OF   MELEAGER,    100   B.  C. 

Oh,  shrill-voiced  insect,  that,  with  dew-drops  sweet 
Inebriate,  dost  in  desert  woodlands  sing  ; 

Perch'd  on  the  spray-top  with  indented  feet, 
Thy  dusky  body's  echoings,  harp-like  ring. 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  239 

Come,  dear  Cicada  !  chirp  to  all  the  grove, 

The  nymphs,  and  Pan,  a  new  responsive  strain  ; 

That  I,  in  noonday  sleep,  may  steal  from  love, 
Reclined  beneath  this  dark  o'erspreading  plane. 

Translation  of  SIR  C.  A.  ELTON. 


THE     GRASSHOPPER. 

FROM  TUB  OKKKK  OF  ANACRKON,  600  B.  C. 

Happy  insect,  what  can  be 

In  happiness  compared  to  thee  ? 

Fed  with  nourishment  divine, 

The  dewy  morning's  gentle  wine ! 

Nature  waits  upon  thee  still, 

And  thy  verdant  cup  does  fill ; 

*Tis  fill'd  wherever  thou  dost  tread, 

Nature  self's  thy  Ganymede. 

Thou  dost  drink,  and  dance,  and  sing, 

Happier  than  the  happiest  king  ! 

All  the  fields  which  thou  dost  see, 

All  the  plants  belong  to  thee  ; 

All  that  summer  hours  produce, 

Fertile  made  with  early  juice. 

Man  for  thee  does  sow  and  plow ; 

Farmer  he,  and  landlord  thou ! 

Thou  dost  innocently  enjoy ; 

Nor  does  thy  luxury  destroy. 

The  shepherd  gladly  heareth  thee, 

More  harmonious  than  he. 

Thee  country  hinds  with  gladness  hear, 

Prophet  of  the  ripen' d  year  ! 

Thee  Phoebus  loves,  and  does  inspire ; 

Phoebus  is  himself  thy  sire. 

To  thee,  of  all  things  upon  earth, 

Life  is  no  longer  than  thy  mirth. 

Happy  insect !  happy  thou, 

Dost  neither  age  nor  winter  know. 

But  when  thou'st  drunk,  and  danc'd,  and  sung 

Thy  fill,  the  flowery  leaves  among, 

(Voluptuous  and  wise  withal, 

Epicurean  animal !) 

Satiated  with  thy  summer  feast, 

Thou  retir'st  to  endless  rest. 

Translation  of  ABRAHAM  COWLBY,  1618-1657. 


240  THE      BUTTERFLY. 


INSECTS.      . 

These  tiny  loiterers  on  the  barley's  beard, 
And  happy  units  of  a  numerous  herd 
Of  playfellows,  the  laughing  summer  brings ; 
Mocking  the  sunshine  on  their  glittering  wings  ; 
How  merrily  they  creep,  and  run,  and  fly! 
No  kin  they  bear  to  labor's  drudgery, 
Smoothing  the  velvet  of  the  pale  hedge-rose, 
And  where  they  fly  for  dinner  no  one  knows ; 
The  dew-drop  feeds  them  not ;  they  love  the  shine 
Of  noon,  whose  suns  may  bring  them  golden  wine. 
All  day  they're  playing  in  their  Sunday  dress — 
When  night  reposes  they  can  do  no  less ; 
Then  to  the  heath-bell's  purple  hood  they  fly, 
And  like  to  princes  in  their  slumbers,  lie 
Secure  from  rain,  and  dropping  dews,  and  all 
On  silken  beds  in  roomy,  painted  hall. 
So  merrily  they  spend  their  summer  day, 
Or  in  the  corn-fields,  or  in  new-mown  hay. 
One  almost  fancies  that  such  happy  things, 
With  colored  hoods  and  richly  burnished  wings, 
Are  fairy  folk,  in  splendid  masquerade 
Disguised,  as  if  of  mortal  folk  afraid ; 
Keeping  their  joyous  pranks  a  mystery  still, 
Lest  glaring  day  should  do  their  secrets  ill. 

JOHN  CLARE. 


FLOWERS    AND    INSECTS. 

Flowers  seem,  as  it  were,  to  impart  a  portion  of  their  own  character- 
istics to  all  things  that  frequent  them.  This  is  peculiarly  exemplified 
in  the  butterfly,  which  must  be  regarded,  par  excellence,  as  the  insect 
of  flowers,  and  a  flower-like  insect,  gay  and  innocent,  made  after  a 
floral  pattern,  and  colored  after  floral  hues.  But  even  with  families 
which  are  usually  dark  and  repulsive — that,  for  instance,  of  cockroach- 
es, which  are  for  the  most  part  black  or  brown — the  few  species  which 
resort  to  flowers  are  gayly  colored.  What  a  contrast,  also,  between  the 
dark,  loathsome,  in-door  spiders  and  their  prettily  painted  green  and 
red,  and  white  and  yellow  brethren  of  the  fields  and  gardens,  which 
eeek  their  prey  among  the  flowers ;  while  more  striking  still  is  the  dif- 
ference between  the  wingless,  disgusting  plague  of  cities  and  the  ele- 
gantly-formed, brightly-colored  winged  bugs,  which  are  common  fre- 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  241 

quenters  of  the  parterre.  Whether  this  be  imputed  to  the  effect  of  light, 
or  the  breathing  influence  of  a  flowery  atmosphere,  and  the  tendency  of 
all  things  to  produce  their  similitudes,  there  lies  beneath  the  natural 
fact  a  moral  analogy  applicable  to  ourselves. 

From  "ACHETA  DOMESTICA." 


THE    DRAGON-FLY. 

FROM   THE  QEBMAN. 

Flutter,  flutter  gently  by, 
Little  motley  dragon-fly, 

On  thy  four  transparent  wings ! 
Hover,  hover  o'er  the  rill, 
And  when  weary,  sit  thee  still, 

Where  the  water-lily  springs. 

More  than  half  thy  little  life, 
Free  from  passion,  free  from  strife, 

Underneath  the  wave  was  sweet ; 
Cool  and  calm,  content  to  dwell, 
Shrouded  by  thy  pliant  shell 

In  a  dark  and  dim  retreat. 

Now  the  nymph,  transformed,  may  roam, 
A  sylph  in  her  aerial  home, 

Where'er  the  zephyrs  shall  invite ; 
Love  is  now  thy  envious  care — 
Love  that  dwells  in  sunny  air — 

But  thy  very  love  is  flight. 

Heedless  of  thy  coming  doom, 
O'er  thy  birthplace  and  thy  tomb 

Flutter,  little  mortal,  still ! 
Though  beside  thy  gladdest  hour, 
Fate's  destroying  mandates  lower — 

Length  of  life  but  lengthens  ill. 

Confine  thy  offspring  to  the  stream, 
That  when  new  summer  suns  shall  gleam, 
They,  too,  may  quit  their  watery  cell ; 
Then  die  !  I  see  each  weary  limb 
Declines  to  fly,  declines  to  swim  : 

Thou  lovely,  short-lived  sylph,  farewell ! 

Translation  (tf  W.  TAYLOR.  JOHANN  GOTTFRIED  v.  HERDER,  1744-1803. 

11 


242  THE      BUTTERFLY. 


TO    AN    INSECT. 

I  love  to  hear  thine  earnest  voice, 
Wherever  thou  art  hid, 

Thou  testy,  little  dogmatist, 
Thou  pretty  Katydid ! 

Thou  mindest  me  of  gentlefolks- 
Old  gentlefolks  are  they ; 

Thou  say'st  an  undisputed  thing 
In  such  a  solemn  way. 

Thou  art  a  female,  Katydid  ! 
I  know  it  by  the  trill 

That  quivers  through  thy  piercing  notes, 
So  petulant  and  shrill. 

I  think  there  is  a  knot  of  you 
Beneath  the  hollow  tree — 

A  knot  of  spinster  Katydids- 
Do  Katydids  drink  tea  ? 

0  tell  me,  where  did  Katy  live, 
And  what  did  Katy  do  ? 

And  was  she  very  fair  and  young, 

And  yet  so  wicked,  too  ? 
Did  Katy  love  a  naughty  man, 

Or  kiss  more  cheeks  than  one  ? 

1  warrant  Katy  did  no  more 

Than  many  a  Kate  has  done. 


Dear  me  !  I'll  tell  you  all  about 

My  fuss  with  little  Jane, 
And  Ann,  with  whom  I  used  to  walk 

So  often  down  the  lane, 
And  all  that  tore  their  locks  of  black. 

Or  wet  their  eyes  of  blue — 
Pray  tell  me,  sweetest  Katydid, 

What  did  poor' Katy  do  ? 

Ah,  no  !  the  living  oak  shall  crash, 

That  stood  for  ages  still ; 
The  rock  shall  rend  its  rocky  base, 

And  thunder  down  the  hill, 
Before  the  little  Katydid 

Shall  add  one  word  to  tell 


THE      BUTTERFLY.  243 

The  mystic  story  of  the  maid 
Whose  name  she  knows  so  well. 

Peace  to  the  ever-murmuring  race  ! 

And  when  the  latest  one 
Shall  fold  in  death  her  feeble  wings 

Beneath  the  autumn  sun, 
Then  shall  she  raise  her  fainting  voice, 

And  lift  her  drooping  lid ; 
And  then  the  child  of  future  years 

Shall  hear  what  Katy  did. 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 


THE    GRASSHOPPER. 

There  is  the  grasshopper,  my  summer  friend — 

The  minute  sound  of  many  a  sunny  hour 
Passed  on  a  thymy  hill,  when  I  could  send 

My  soul  in  search  thereof  by  bank  and  bower, 
Till  lured  far  from  it  by  a  foxglove  flower, 

Nodding  too  dangerously  above  the  crag, 
Not  to  excite  the  passion  and  the  power 

To  climb  the  steep,  and  down  the  blossom  drag ; 

Then  the  marsh-crocus  joined,  and  yellow  water-flag. 

Shrill  sings  the  drowsy  wassailer  in  his  dome, 

Yon  grassy  wilderness,  where  curls  the  fern, 
And  creeps  the  ivy ;  with  the  wish  to  roam, 

He  spreads  his  sails,  and  bright  is  his  sojourn, 
'Mid  chalices  with  dews  in  every  urn ; 

All  flying  things  alike  delight  have  found — 
Where'er  1  gaze,  to  what  new  region  turn, 

Ten  thousand  insects  in  the  air  abound, 

Flitting  on  glancing  wings  that  yield  a  summer's  sound. 

JEREMIAH  HOLME  WIFFIN,  1792-1836. 


XV. 


A  VOLUME  of  general  selections  from  English  rural  verse 
would  be  incomplete  without  some  passage  from  Den- 
ham's  poem  of  "  Cooper's  Hill" — a  poem  so  highly  lauded  by 
past  generations,  and  which  we  still  read  to-day  with  admi- 
ration. Sir  John  Denham  is  one  of  those  poets  who  have 
met  with  very  opposite  treatment  from  critics  of  different 
generations  ;  after  receiving  the  highest  commendations  from 
Dryden,  from  Johnson,  from  Pope,  from  Somerville,  his  bays 
have  been  very  severely  handled  in  our  own  time.  But  al- 
lowing him  to  have  been  over-praised  at  one  period,  shall  we 
for  that  reason  refuse  ourselves  the  pleasure  he  is  assuredly 
capable  of  affording  us  ?  Is  not  "  Cooper's  Hill"  a  fine  old 
poem  of  the  second  class,  which  the  nineteenth  century  does 
well  to  read  once  in  a  while?  The  celebrated  lines',  quoted  a 
thousand  times, 

"  Though  deep,  yet  clear ;  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull. 
Strong  without  rage ;  without  o'erflowing,  full," 


THE      STREAMS.  245 

were  amusingly  parodied  some  fifty  years  ago  by  Mr.  Soame 
Jenyns,  in  his  satire  upon  an  unfledged,  ignorant  memberling 
of  Parliament  : 

"  Without  experience,  honesty,  or  sense, 
Unknowing  in  her  interests,  trade,  or  laws, 
He  vainly  undertakes  his  country's  cause ; 
Forth  from  his  lips,  prepared  at  all  to  rail, 
Torrents  of  nonsense  flow  like  bottled  ale ; 
Though  shallow,  muddy ;  brisk,  though  mighty  dull ; 
Fierce  without  strength  ;  o'erflowing,  though  not  full." 


THE    STREAMS. 


ARIEL'S  BONO. 


Come  unto  these  yellow  sands, 

And  then  take  hands ; 
Curt'sied  when  you  have,  and  kind 

(The  wild  waves  whist), 
Foot  it  featly,  here  and  there ; 
And,  sweet  sprites,  the  burden  bear ! 
1 1, -irk'  hark! 
The  watch-dogs  bark ; 
Hark !  hark  !  I  hear 
The  strain  of  strutting  chanticleer 
Cry  cock-a-doodle-doo ! 

SHAKBTEAHK. 


THE    THAMES. 

FROM  ••  COOPEB'S  HILL." 

Thames,  the  most  lov'd  of  all  the  Ocean's  sons, 
By  his  old  sire,  to  his  embraces  runs ; 
Hasty  to  pay  his  tribute  to  the  sea, 
Like  mortal  life  to  meet  eternity, 
Though  with  those  streams  he  no  resemblance  hold, 
Whose  foam  is  amber,  and  their  gravel  gold, 
His  genuine  and  less  guilty  wealth  t'  explore, 
Search  not  his  bottoms,  but  survey  his  shore, 
O'er  which  he  kindly  spreads  his  spacious  wing, 
And  hatches  plenty  for  the  ensuing  spring  ; 
Nor  then  destroys  it  with  too  fond  a  stay, 
Like  mothers  who  their  infants  overlay  ; 


246  THE      STREAMS. 

Nor  with  a  sudden  and  impetuous  wave, 
Like  profuse  kings,  resumes  the  wealth  he  gave. 
No  unexpected  inundations  spoil 
The  mower's  hopes,  or  mock  the  plowman's  toil ; 
But  God-like  his  unwearied  bounty  flows  ; 
First  loves  to  do,  then  loves  the  good  he  does. 
Nor  are  his  blessings  to  his  banks  confin'd, 
But  free  and  common,  as  the  sea  or  wind ; 
When  he  to  boast  or  to  disperse  his  stores, 
Full  of  the  tributes  of  his  grateful  shores, 
Visits  the  world,  and  in  his  flying  tow'rs 
Brings  home  to  us,  and  makes  both  Indies  ours ; 
Finds  wealth  where  'tis,  bestows  it  where  it  wants — 
Cities  in  deserts,  woods  in  cities  plants. 
So  that  to  us  no  thing,  no  place  is  strange, 
While  his  fair  bosom  is  the  world's  exchange. 
0  could  I  flow  like  thee,  and  make  thy  stream 
My  great  example,  as  it  is  my  theme  ! 
Though  deep,  yet  clear ;  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull ; 
,.,.  Strong  without  rage  ;  without  o'erflowing,  full. 
Heaven  her  Eridanus  no  more  shall  boast, 
Whose  fame  in  thine,  like  lesser  current,  lost ; 
Thy  nobler  streams  shall  visit  Jove's  abodes, 
To  shine  among  the  stars  and  bathe  the  gods. 
Here  nature,  whether  more  intent  to  please 
Us  or  herself,  with  strange  varieties, 
(For  things  of  wonder  give  no  less  delight 
To  the  wise  Maker's  than  beholders'  sight ; 
Though  these  delights  from  sev'ral  causes  move, 
For  so  our  children,  thus  our  friends  we  love), 
Wisely  she  knew  the  harmony  of  things, 
As  well  as  that  of  sounds,  from  discord  springs. 
Such  was  the  discord  which  did  first  disperse 
Form,  order,  beauty,  through  the  universe ; 
While  dryness  moisture,  coldness  heat  resists, 
All  that  we  have,  and  that  we  are,  subsists ; 
While  the  steep,  horrid  roughness  of  the  wood 
Strives  with  the  gentle  calmness  of  the  flood, 
Such  huge  extremes,  when  Nature  doth  unite, 
Wonder  from  thence  results,  from  thence  delight. 
The  stream  is  so  transparent,  pure,  and  clear, 
That  had  the  self-enainor'd  youth  gaz'd  here, 
So  fatally  deceived  he  had  not  been, 
While  he  the  bottom,  not  his  face,  had  seen. 
But  his  proud  head  the  airy  mountain  hides 


THE      STREAMS.  247 

Among  the  clouds  ;  his  shoulders  and  his  side 
A  shady  mantle  clothes  ;  his  curled  brows 
Frown  on  the  gentle  stream,  which  calmly  flows ; 
While  winds  and  storms  his  lofty  forehead  beat, 
The  common  fate  of  all  that's  high  or  great. 
Low  at  his  foot  a  spacious  plain  is  plac'd, 
Between  the  mountain  and  the  stream  embrac'd ; 
Which  shade  and  shelter  from  the  hill  derives, 
While  the  kind  river  wealth  and  beauty  gives ; 
And  in  the  mixture  of  all  these  appears 
Variety,  which  all  the  rest  endears. 

SIR  JOHK  DENHAM,  1618-1668. 


RIVER    AND    SONG. 

It  is  no  little  recommendation  of  the  rivers  we  met  with  here,  that  al- 
most every  one  of  them  is  the  subject  of  some  pleasing  Scotch  ditty, 
which  the  scene  brings  to  the  memory  of  those  who  are  versed  in  the 
lyrics  of  the  country.  The  elegant  simplicity  of  the  verse,  and  the 
soothing  melody  of  the  music,  in  almost  all  the  Scotch  songs,  is  uni- 
versally acknowledged :  "  Tweed-side,  and  EttricK's  Banks"  are  not 
among  the  least  pleasing. 

GILPIN'S  "Iligldands  of  Scotland?  1789. 


ODE    TO    LEVEN-WATER. 

On  Leven's  banks,  while  free  to  rove, 

Arid  tune  the  rural  pipe  to  love, 

I  envied  not  the  happiest  swain 

That  ever  trod  the  Arcadian  plain. 

Pure  stream  !  in  whose  transparent  wave 

My  youthful  limbs  I  wont  to  lave ; 

No  torrents  stain  thy  limpid  source  ; 

No  rocks  impede  thy  dimpling  course, 

That  sweetly  warbles  o'er  its  bed. 

Witli  white,  round,  polish'd  pebbles  spread; 

While,  lightly  pois'd,  the  scaly  brood, 

In  myriads  cleave  thy  crystal  flood  ; 

The  springing  trout  in  speckled  pride; 

The  salmon,  monarch  of  the  tide  ; 

The  ruthless  pike,  intent  on  war ; 

The  silver  eel,  and  mottled  par, 

Devolving  from  thy  parent  lake, 

A  charming  maze  thy  waters  make, 


248  THE      STREAMS. 

By  bowers  of  birds,  and  groves  of  pine, 
And  hedges  flower'd  with  eglantine. 
Still  on  thy  banks  so  gayly  green, 
May  num'rous  herds  and  flocks  be  seen, 
And  lasses  chanting  o'er  the  pail, 
And  shepherds  piping  in  the  dale, 
And  ancient  Faith,  that  knows  no  guile, 
And  Industry  embrown'd  with  toil, 
And  hearts  resolved,  and  hands  prepar'd, 
The  blessings  they  enjoy  to  guard. 

TOBIAS  SMOLLETT,  1720-1771. 


SONG. 

FBOM   THE   GERMAN. 

See  the  rocky  spring, 

Clear  as  joy, 

Like  a  sweet  star  gleaming ! 

O'er  the  clouds,  he 

In  his  youth  was  cradled 

By  good  spirits, 

'Neath  the  bushes  in  the  cliffs. 

Fresh  with  youth 

From  the  cloud  he  dances 

Down  upon  the  rocky  pavement : 

Thence,  exulting, 

Leaps  to  heaven. 

For  a  while  he  dallies 

Eound  the  summit, 

Through  its  little  channels  chasing 

Motley  pebbles  round  and  round  ; 

Quick,  then,  like  determined  leader, 

Hurries  all  his  brother  streamlets 

Off  with  him. 

There,  all  round  him  in  the  vale, 

Flowers  spring  up  beneath  his  footstep, 

And  the  meadow 

Wakes  to  feel  his  breath. 

But  him  holds  no  shady  vale — 


THE      STREAMS.  249 

No  cool  blossoms, 

Which  around  his  knees  are  clinging, 
And  with  loving  eyes  entreating 
Passing  notice  ?  on  he  speeds, 
Winding  snake-like. 

Social  brooklets 

Add  their  waters.    Now  he  rolls 

O'er  the  plain  in  silvery  splendor. 

And  the  plain  his  splendor  borrows ; 

And  the  rivulets  from  the  plain, 

And  the  brooklets  from  the  hill-sides, 

All  are  shouting  to  him,  "  Brother, 

Brother,  take  thy  brothers  too — 

Take  us  to  thy  ancient  Father, 

To  the  everlasting  Ocean, 

Who,  e'en  now,  with  outstretched  arms, 

Waits  for  us — 

Arms  outstretched,  alas  !  in  vain, 

To  embrace  his  longing  ones ; 

For  the  greedy  sand  devours  us ; 

Or  the  burning  sun  above  us 

Sucks  our  life-blood ;  or  some  hillock 

Hems  us  into  ponds.     Ah  !  brother, 

Take  thy  brothers  from  the  plain — 

Take  thy  brothers  from  the  hill-sides 

With  thee,  to  our  Sire  with  thee !" 

"  Come  ye  all,  then  !" 

Now,  more  proudly, 

On  he  swells  ;  a  countless  race,  they 

Bear  their  glorious  prince  aloft ! 

On  he  rolls  triumphantly 

Giving  names  to  countries  ;  cities 

Spring  to  being  'neath  his  feet. 

Onward  with  incessant  roaring, 
See  !  he  passes  proudly  by 
Flaming  turrets,  marble  mansions — 
Creatures  of  his  fullness,  all ! 

Cedar  houses  bears  this  Atlas 
On  his  giant  shoulders  ;  rustling, 
Flapping  in  the  playful  breezes, 
Thousand  flags  about  his  head  are 
Telling  of  his  majesty. 
11* 


250  THE      STREAMS. 

And  so  bears  he  all  his  brothers, 
And  his  treasures,  and  his  children, 
To  their  Sire,  all  joyous  roaring — 
Pressing  to  his  mighty  hteart. 
Translation  ofj.  S.  DWIGHT.  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  v.  GOETHE,  1749-1832. 


THE    RIVULET. 


THE    SPANISH. 


Stay,  rivnlet,  nor  haste  to  leave 

The  lovely  vale  that  lies  around  thee ! 

Why  wouldst  thou  be  a  sea  at  eve, 

When  but  a  fount  the  morning  found  thee  ? 

Born  when  the  skies  began  to  glow, 

Humblest  of  all  the  rock's  cold  daughters, 

No  blossom  bowed  its  stalk  to  show 
Where  stole  thy  still  and  scanty  waters. 

Now  on  thy  stream  the  moonbeams  look, 
Usurping,  as  thou  downward  driftest, 

Its  crystal  from  the  clearest  brook, 
Its  rushing  current  from  the  swiftest. 

Ah  !  what  wild  haste— and  all  to  be 

A  river,  and  expire  in  ocean ! 
Each  fountain's  tribute  hurries  thee 

To  that  vast  grave  with  quicker  motion. 

Far  better  'twere  to  linger  still 

In  this  green  vale  these  flowers  to  cherish, 
And  die  in  peace,  an  aged  rill, 

Than  thus,  a  youthful  Danube,  perish. 
Translation  of  W.  C.  BRYANT.  PEDRO  DE  CASTRO,  ltffi  Century. 


THE    STREAM    OF    THE    ROCK. 

FROM   THE   GERMAN. 

Unperishing  youth  ! 
Thou  leapest  from  forth 
The  cleft  of  the  rock ; 
No  mortal  eye  saw 
The  mighty  one's  cradle ; 
No  ear  ever  heard 
The  lofty  one's  lisp  in  the  murmuring  spring 


THE      STREAMS.  251 

How  beautiful  art  thou, 

In  silvery  locks ! 

How  terrible  art  thou, 
When  the  cliffs  are  resounding  in  thunder  around  ! 

Thee  feareth  the  fir-tree ; 

Thou  crushest  the  fir-tree 

From  its  root  to  its  crown. 

The  cliffs  flee  before  thee ; 

The  cliffs  thou  engraspest, 
And  hurlest  them,  scornful,  like  pebbles  adown. 

The  sun  weaves  around  thee 

The  beams  of  its  splendor ; 
It  painteth  with  hues  of  the  heavenly  iris, 
The  uprolling  clouds  of  the  silvery  spray. 

Why  speedest  thou  downward, 

Toward  the  green  sea  ? 
Is  it  not  well  by  the  nearer  heaven  ? 
Not  well  by  the  sounding  cliff  ? 
Not  well  by  the  o'erhanging  forest  of  oaks  ? 

0  hasten  not  so 

Toward  the  green  sea ! 
Youth  !  0  now  thou  art  strong,  like  a  god ! 

Free  like  a  god  ! 

Beneath  thee  is  smiling  the  peacefulest  stillness, 
The  tremulous  swell  of  the  slumberous  sea ; 
Now  silvered  o'er  by  the  swimming  moonshine ; 
Now  golden  and  red  in  the  light  of  the  west. 

Youth,  0  what  is  this  silken  quiet ; 

What  is  the  smile  of  the  friendly  moonlight — 

The  purple  and  gold  of  the  evening  sun, 

To  him  whom  the  feeling  of  bondage  oppresses  ? 

Now  streamest  thou  wild 

As  thy  heart  may  prompt ! 
But  below  oft  ruleth  the  fickle  tempest, 
Oft  the  stillness  of  death,  in  the  subject  sea  ! 

0  hasten  not  so 
Toward  the  green  sea ! 
Youth,  0  now  thou  art  strong,  like  a  god, 

Free,  like  a  god ! 
Translation  of  W.  "W.  STORY.  FR.  LEOP.  STOLBKRG,  1760-1819. 


252  THE      STREAMS. 


A    RIVER. 

FEOM   "  8ALMONIA." 

Hal.  I  think  I  can  promise  you  green  meadows,  shady  trees,  the  song 
of  the  nightingale,  and  a  full,  clear  river, 

Poiet.  This  last  is,  in  my  opinion,  the  most  poetical  object  in  nature. 
I  will  not  fail  to  obey  your  summons.  Pliny  has,  as  well  as  I  recollect, 
compared  a  river  to  human  life.  I  have  never  read  the  passage  in  his 
works  but  I  have  been  a  hundred  times  struck  with  the  analogy,  par- 
ticularly amid  mountain  scenery.  The  river,  small  and  clear  at  its 
origin,  gushes  forth  from  rocks,  falls  into  deep  glens,  and  wantons  and 
meanders  through  a  wild  and  picturesque  country,  nourishing  only  the 
uncultivated  tree  or  flower  by  its  dew  or  spray.  In  this,  its  state  of  in- 
fancy and  youth,  it  may  be  compared  to  the  human  mind,  in  which 
fancy  and  strength  of  imagination  are  predominant — it  is  more  beauti- 
ful than  useful.  When  the  different  rills  or  torrents  join,  and  descend 
into  the  plain,  it  becomes  slow  and  stately  in  its  motions ;  it  is  applied 
to  move  machinery,  to  irrigate  meadows,  and  to  bear  upon  its  bosom  the 
stately  barge ;  in  this  mature  state  it  is  deep,  strong,  useful.  As  it 
flows  on  toward  the  sea,  it  loses  its  force  and  its  motion,  and  at  last,  as 
it  were,  becomes  lost,  and  mingled  with  the  mighty  abyss  of  waters. 

Hal.  One  might  pursue  the  metaphor  still  further,  and  say  that  in  its 
origin — its  thundering  and  foam,  when  it  carries  down  clay  from  the 
bank,  and  becomes  impure — it  resembles  the  youthful  mind  affected  by 
dangerous  passions.  And  the  influence  of  a  lake,  in  calming  and  clear- 
ing the  turbid  water,  may  be  compared  to  the  effect  of  reason  in  more 
mature  life,  when  the  tranquil,  deep,  cool,  and  unimpassioned  mind  is 
freed  from  its  fever,  its  troubles,  bubbles,  noise,  and  foam.  And,  above 
all,  the  sources  of  a  river — which  may  be  considered  as  belonging  to  the 
atmosphere — and  its  termination  in  the  ocean,  may  be  regarded  as  im- 
aging the  divine  origin  of  the  human  mind,  and  its  being  ultimately 
returned  to,  and  lost  in,  the  Infinite  and  Eternal  Intelligence  from  which 
it  originally  sprung. 

SIR  HUMPHREY  DAVY. 


LIFE    COMPARED    TO    A    STREAM. 

Life  glides  away,  Lorenzo,  like  a  brook  ; 

Forever  changing,  unperceiv'd  the  change. 

In  the  same  brook  none  ever  bathed  him  twice : 

To  the  same  life  none  ever  twice  awoke. 

We  call  the  brook  the  same  ;  the  same  we  think 


THE      STREAMS.  253 

Our  life,  though  still  more  rapid  in  its  flow  ; 

Nor  mark  the  much  irrevocably  laps'd, 

And  mingled  with  the  sea  ;  or  shall  we  say 

(Retaining  still  the  brook  to  bear  us  on) 

That  life  is  like  a  vessel  on  the  stream  ? 

In  life  embark'd,  we  smoothly  down  the  tide 

Of  time  descend,  but  not  on  time  intent ; 

Amus'd,  unconscious  of  the  gliding  wave  ; 

Till  on  a  sudden  we  perceive  a  shock ; 

We  start,  awake,  look  out ;  our  bark  is  burst ! 

EDWARD  YOUNG,  1681-1755 


ON  THE  BRONZE  IMAGE  OF  A  FROG. 

FBOM  THE  OBKKK  OF  PLATO. 

A  traveler,  when  nearly  exhausted  by  thirst,  belnt?  guided  by  the  croaking  of  a  frog  to  a  spring 
of  water,  afterward  vowed  to  the  Nymphs  a  broiize  linage  of  the  little  creature. 

The  servant  of  the  Nymphs,  the  singer  dank, 

Pleased  with  clear  fountains — the  shower-loving  frog, 

Imaged  in  brass — hath  a  wayfaring  man 

Placed  here,  a  votive  gift — because  it  served 

To  quencli  the  fever  of  the  traveler's  thirst. 

For  the  amphibious  creature's  well-timed  song, 

Croaked  from  its  dewy  grot,  the  wandering  steps 

Of  him  who  searched  for  water  hither  drew  ; 

Not  heedless  of  the  guiding  voice,  he  found 

The  longed-for  draught  from  the  sweet  cooling  spring. 

Translation  of  W.  HAT. 


LITTLE    STREAMS. 

Little  streams  are  light  and  shadow, 
Flowing  through  the  pasture  meadow — 
Flowing  by  the  green  way-side, 
Through  the  forest  dim  and  wild, 
Through  the  hamlet  still  and  small, 
By  the  cottage,  by  the  hall, 
By  the  ruin'd  abbey  still, 
Turning  here  and  there  a  mill, 
Bearing  tribute  to  the  river — 
Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever. 

Summer  music  is  there  flowing — 
Flowering  plants  in  them  are  growing  ; 


254  THE      STREAMS. 

Happy  life  is  in  them  all, 
Creatures  innocent  and  small ; 
Little  birds  come  down  to  drink, 
Fearless  of  their  leafy  brink  ; 
Noble  trees  beside  them  grow, 
Glooming  them  with  branches  low ; 
And  between  the  sunshine  glancing 
In  their  little  waves  is  dancing. 

Little  streams  have  flowers  a  many, 
Beautiful  and  fair  as  any  ; 
Typha  strong,  and  green  bur-reed, 
Willow-herb,  with  cotton-seed ; 
Arrow-head,  with  eye  of  jet. 
And  the  water-violet. 
There  the  flowering  rush  you  meet, 
And  the  plumy  meadow  sweet ; 
And  in  places  deep  and  stilly, 
Marble-like,  the  water-lily. 

Little  streams,  their  voices  cheery, 

Sound  forth  welcomes  to  the  weary  ; 

Flowing  on  from  day  to  day, 

Without  stint  and  without  stay ; 

Here,  upon  their  flowery  bank, 

In  the  old  time  pilgrims  drank ; 

Here  have  seen,  as  now,  pass  by, 

King-fisher,  and  dragon-fly ; 

Those  bright  things  that  have  their  dwelling, 

Where  the  little  streams  are  welling. 

Down  in  valleys  green  and  lowly, 
Murmuring  not  and  gliding  slowly, 
Up  in  mountain-hollows  wild, 
Fretting  like  a  peevish  child  ; 
Through  the  hamlet,  where  all  day 
In  their  waves  the  children  play ; 
Running  west,  or  running  east, 
Doing  good  to  man  and  beast — 
Always  giving,  weary  never, 
Little  streams,  I  love  you  ever. 

MART  HOWITT. 


THE      STREAMS.  255 


FROGS. 

FltOM    THK   OUKKK    OF    AK1STOIM1ANKS. 

Bacchus.  ****** 

Hold  your  tongues,  you  tuneful  creatures 
Frogs.  Cease  with  your  profane  entreaties, 
All  in  vain  forever  stirring ; 
Silence  is  against  our  natures. 
With  the  vernal  heat  reviving, 
Our  aquatic  crew  repair 
From  their  periodic  sleep, 
In  the  dark  and  chilly  deep, 
To  the  cheerful  upper  air ; 
Then  we  frolic  here  and  there, 
All  amid  the  meadows  fair  ; 
Shady  plants  of  asphodel, 
Are  the  lodges  where  we  dwell, 
Chanting  in  the  leafy  bowers, 
All  the  livelong  summer  hours, 
Till  the  sudden,  gusty  showers 
Send  us  headlong,  helter-skelter, 
To  the  pool  to  seek  for  shelter ; 
Meager,  eager,  leaping,  lunging, 
From  the  sedgy  wharfage  plunging 
To  the  tranquil  depth  below, 
Then  we  muster  all  a-row, 
Where,  secure  from  toil  and  trouble, 
With  a  tuneful  bubble-bubble, 
Our  symphonious  accents  flow. 

Brikake-kesh,  koash,  koiish. 
***** 

Translation  of  ,T.  II.  FCFKE. 

THE    RIVULETS. 

Go  up  and  mark  the  new-born  rill, 

Just  trickling  from  its  mossy  bed  ; 
Streaking  the  heath-clad  hill 

With  a  bright  emerald  thread. 

Canst  thou  her  bold  career  foretell, 
What  rocks  she  shall  o'erleap  or  rend, 

How  far  in  ocean's  swell, 

Her  freshening  billows  semi  ? 


256  THE      STREAMS. 

Perchance  that  little  brook  shall  flow 
The  bulwark  of  some  mighty  realm, 

Bear  navies  to  and  fro, 
With  monarchs  at  their  helm. 

Or  canst  thou  guess  how  far  away 
Some  sister  nymph,  beside  her  urn, 

Reclining  night  and  day, 

'Mid  reeds  and  mountain  fern, 

Nurses  her  store,  with  thine  to  blend, 
When  many  a  moor  and  glen  are  past ; 

Then  in  the  wide  sea  end 
Their  spotless  lives  at  last  ? 

Even  so  the  course  of  prayer  who  knows  ? 

It  springs  in  silence  when  it  will — 
Springs  out  of  sight,  and  flows 

At  first  a  lonely  rill. 

But  streams  shall  meet  it  by-and-by, 
From  thousand  sympathetic  hearts — 

Together  swelling  high, 
Their  chant  of  many  parts. 


JOHN  KEBLE. 


LINES. 

I  wander'd  in  the  woodland  ; 

My  heart  beat  cold  and  slow, 
And  not  a  tear  of  sorrow, 

To  ease  its  weight,  would  flow. 

But  soft  a  brook  sang  by  me, 

'-  Ah  !  give  thy  grief  to  me. 
And  I  will  bear  it  lightly, 

Far,  far  away  from  thee !" 

So  sweet  that  lulling  murmur, 

Its  music  thrill'd  my  heart, 
And,  o'er  the  glad  wave  weeping, 

I  felt  my  grief  depart. 

FRANCES  SARGENT  OSGOOD. 


THE      STREAMS.  257 


THE    WAY-SIDE    SPRING. 

Fair  dweller  by  the  dusty  way, 

Bright  saint  within  a  mossy  shrine, 
The  tribute  of  a  heart  to-day, 

Weary  and  worn,  is  thine. 

The  earliest  blossoms  of  the  year, 

The  sweet-brier  and  the  violet, 
The  pious  hand  of  spring  has  here 

Upon  thy  altar  set. 

And  not  alone  to  thee  is  given 

The  homage  of  the  pilgrim's  knee  ; 
But  oft  the  sweetest  birds  of  heaven 

Glide  down  and  sing  to  thee. 

Here  daily  from  his  beechen  cell, 

The  hermit  squirrel  steals  to  drink, 
And  flocks  which  cluster  to  their  bell, 

Recline  along  thy  brink. 

And  here  the  wagoner  blocks  his  wheels, 

To  quaff  the  cool  and  generous  boon  ; 
Here  from  the  sultry  harvest  fields 

The  reapers  rest  at  noon. 

And  oft  the  beggar  masked  with  tan, 

In  rusty  garments  gray  with  dust. 
Here  sits  and  dips  his  little  can, 

And  breaks  his  scanty  crust. 

And  lulled  beside  thy  whispering  stream, 

Oft  drops  to  slumber  unawares, 
And  sees  the  angel  of  his  dream 

Upon  celestial  stairs. 

Dear  dweller  by  the  dusty  way, 

Thou  saint  within  a  mossy  shrine. 
The  tribute  of  a  heart  to  day, 

Weary  and  worn,  is  thine  ! 

THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 


258  THE      STREAMS. 


GULLS. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  view  the  sea-gulls  strive 

Against  the  storm,  or  in  the  ocean  dive, 

With  eager  scream,  or  when  they  dropping  gave 

Their  closing  wings  to  sail  upon  the  wave ; 

Then  as  the  winds  and  waters  raged  around, 

And  breaking  billows  mix'd  their  deafening  sound, 

They  on  the  rolling  deep  securely  hung, 

And  calmly  rode  the  restless  waves  among. 

Nor  pleas'd  it  less  around  me  to  behold, 

Far  up  the  beach  the  yesty  sea-foam  roll'd ; 

Or  from  the  shore  upborne,  to  see  on  high 

Its  frothy  flakes  in  wild  confusion  fly ; 

While  the  salt  spray,  that  clashing  billows  form, 

Gave  to  the  taste  a  feeling  of  the  storm. 

GEORGE  CKABBE,  1754-1832. 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing, 

From  morn  till  night. 

Into  the  moonlight, 
W'hiter  than  snow, 

Waving  so  flower-like, 
When  the  winds  blow ! 

Into  the  starlight, 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight — 
Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary ; 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward, 
Motion  thy  rest ; 


THE      STREAMS.  259 

Full  of  a  nature 

Nothing  can  tame, 
Changed  every  moment— 

Ever  the  same ; 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine, 

Thy  element ; 

Glorious  fountain ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant 

Upward,  like  thee ! 

J.  E.  LOWBLL. 


11  rpHEY  inhabit  the  interior  of  green  hills,  chiefly  those  of 
-L  a  conical  form,  on  which  they  lead  their  dances  by  moon- 
light, impressing  upon  the  surface  the  marks  of  circles,  which 
sometimes  appear  yellow  and  blasted,  sometimes  of  a  deep- 
green  hue,  and  within  which  it  is  dangerous  to  sleep  or  to  be 
found  after  sunset. 

"  They  are  heard  sedulously  hammering  in  linns,  preci- 
pices, and  rocky  or  cavernous  situations,  where,  like  the  dwarfs 
of  the  mines,  mentioned  by  Georg.  Agricola,  they  busy  them- 
selves in  imitating  the  actions  and  the  various  employments 
of  men.  The  brook  of  Beaumont,  for  example,  which  passes 
in  its  course  by  numerous  linns  and  caverns,  is  notorious  for 
being  haunted  by  the  Fairies ;  and  the  perforated  and  rounded 
stones,  which  are  formed  by  trituration  in  its  channel,  are 
termed,  bv  the  vulgar,  fairy-cups  and  dishes.  A  beautiful  rea- 


FAIRIES.  261 

son  is  assigned  by  Fletcher  for  the  fays  frequenting  streams 
and  fountains.     He  tells  us  of 

1  A  virtuous  well,  about  whose  flowery  banks 
The  nimble-footed  Fairies  dance  their  rounds 
By  the  pale  moonshine,  dipping  oftentimes 
Their  stolen  children,  so  to  make  them  free 
From  dying  flesh  and  dull  mortality.' 

Faithful  Sheplierdets. 

There  is  upon  the  top  of  Minchmuir,  a  mountain  in  Pee- 
bleshire,  a  spring  called  the  Cheese  Well,  because,  anciently, 
those  who  passed  that  way  were  wont  to  throw  into  it  a  piece 
of  cheese  as  an  offering  to  the  Fairies,  to  whom  it  was  con- 
secrated. 

"  The  usual  dress  of  the  Fairies  is  green,  though,  on  the 
moors,  they  have  been  sometimes  observed  in  heathjbrown, 
or  in  weeds  dyed  with  the  stoneran,  or  lichen.  They  often 
ride  in  invisible  procession,  when  their  presence  is  discov- 
ered by  the  shrill  ringing  of  their  bridles." — Minstrelsy  of 
Scottish  Border. 

The  seed  of  the  fern,  from  its  singular  manner  of  growth, 
was  supposed  to  be  under  the  especial  protection  of  the  Queen 
of  the  Fairies.  It  was  believed  to  have  the  quality  of  ren- 
dering whoever  carried  it  about  him  invisible,  and  to  be  also 
of  great  use  in  charms  and  incantations.  But  the  difficulties 
of  gathering  this  mysterious  seed  were  very  great  indeed  ;  it 
was  supposed  to  be  only  visible  on  St.  John's  Eve,  and  at  the 
very  moment  when  the  Baptist  was  born.  How  the  rustic 
population  accounted  for  the  fact  that  it  might,  in  reality,  be 
found  on  the  fronds  both  before  and  after  that  day,  one  can  not 
say ;  but  they  probably  held  this  to  be  a  delusion  of  the  Fai- 
ries. It  is  certain,  at  least,  that  they  supposed  the  important 
magic  seed  itself  only  to  be  attainable  on  that  one  evening  in 
the  year.  But  even  at  the  right  hour  to  collect  this  seed  was 
no  easy  task,  the  Fairies  resorting  to  all  kinds  of  devices  to 
prevent  human  hands  from  gathering  it.  A  certain  individ- 
ual who  flattered  himself  that  he  had  succeeded  in  his  er- 
rand, and  supposed  that  "  he  had  gotten  a  quantity  of  it,  and 


262  FAIRIES. 

secured  it  in  papers,  and  in  a  box  besides,  when  he  came 
home,  found  all  empty."  This  fancy  connected  with  the  fern 
appears  to  have  been  very  general.  Shakspeare  alludes  to  it: 

"  We  have  the  receipt  of  fern-seed ;  we  walk  invisible." 

Henry  1 T.,  Actl,  Sc.  3. 


ELVES. 

Ye  elves  of  hills,  brooks,  standing  lakes,  and  groves  ; 
And  ye  that  on  the  sand,  with  print  less  feet, 
Do  chase  the  ebbing  Neptune,  and  do  fly  him 
When  he  comes  back  ;  you  demi-puppcts  that 
By  moonshine  do  the  green,  sour  ringlets  make, 
Whereof  the  ewe  bites  not ;  and  you  whose  pastime 
Is  to  make  midnight-mushrooms ;  that  rejoice 
tTo  hear  the  solemn  curfew, 

SHAKSVEAUE'S  Tempest. 


HYNDE    ETIN. 


May  Margaret  stood  in  her  bouir  door 

Kaming  her  yellow  hair ; 
She  heard  a  note  in  Elmond  wood, 

And  she  wished  that  she  was  there. 

Sae  she  has  kiltit  her  petticoats, 

A  little  abune  her  knee ; 
And  she's  awa  to  Elmond's  wood 

As  fast  as  she  can  gae. 

She  hadna  poued  a  nut,  a  nut, 
Nor  broke  a  branch  but  ane 

When  by  and  came  a  young  hind  chiel, 
Says,  "Lady  !  let  alane. 

"  0  why  pou  ye  the  nut,  the  nut, 

Or  why  break  ye  the  tree  ? 
I'm  forester  ower  a'  this  wood, 

Ye  sould  speir  leave  at  me." 

But  aye  she  poued  the  other  berry, 
Nae  thinking  o'  the  skaith  ; 


FAIRIES.  263 

And  says,  "  To  wrong  ye,  Hynde  Etin, 
I  wad  be  unco  laith." 

But  he  has  taen  her  by  the  yellow  locks, 

And  tied  her  till  a  tree, 
And  said,  "  For  slichting  my  commands, 

An  ill  death  ye  sail  die !" 

He  pou'd  a  tree  out  o'  the  wood, 

The  biggest  that  was  there  ; 
And  he  howkit  a  cave  many  fathoms  deep, 

And  put  May  Margaret  there. 

"  Now  rest  ye  there,  ye  saucy  May, 

My  woods  are  free  for  thee  ; 
And  gif  I  take  ye  to  my  cell, 

The  better  ye'll  like  me*" 

Nae  rest,  nae  rest  May  Margaret  took ; 

Sleep  she  gat  never  nane ; 
Her  back  lay  on  the  cauld,  cauld  floor, 

Her  head  upon  the  stane. 

"  0  tak  me  out,"  May  Margaret  cried, 

"  0  tak  me  hame  to  thee ; 
And  I  sail  be  your  bounden  page, 

Until  the  day  I  dee." 

He  took  her  out  the  dungeon  deep, 

And  awa  wi'  him  she's  gane ; 
But  sad  was  the  day  when  a  king's  daughter 

Gaed  hame  wi'  Hynde  Etin. 

0  they  hae  lived  in  Elmond  wood 

For  six  lang  years  and  one ; 
Till  six  pretty  sons  to  him  she  bore, 

And  the  seventh  she's  brought  home. 

These  seven  bairns,  sae  fair  and  fine, 

That  she  to  him  did  bring ; 
They  never  were  in  good  church  door, 

Nor  ever  gat  good  kirking. 

And  aye  at  nicht.  wi'  harp  in  hand, 

As  they  lay  still  asleep, 
She  sat  hersell  by  their  bedside, 

And  bitterly  did  weep. 


~64  FAIRIES. 

Singing,  "  Ten  lang  years  now  have  I  lived 

Within  this  cave  of  stane, 
And  never  was  at  good  kirk-door, 

Nor  heard  the  kirk-bell  ring." 

But  it  fell  once  upon  a  day, 
Hynde  Etin  went  from  home  ; 

And  for  to  carry  his  game  to  him, 
Has  taen  his  oldest  son. 

And  as  they  through  the  good  greenwood, 
Wi'  slowsome  pace  did  gae, 

The  bonnie  boy's  heart  grew  grit  and  sair, 
And  thus  he  goud  to  say  : 

"  A  question  I  would  ask,  father, 

An  ye  wadna  angry  be ;" 
"  Say  on,  say  on,  my  bonnie  boy  ; 

Ask  onything  at  me." 

"  My  mither's  cheeks  are  often  wet ; 

I  seldom  see  them  dry  ; 
And  I  wonder  aye  what  aileth  my  mither 

To  mourn  continually  ?" 

"  Nae  wonder  that  your  mither's  cheeks 

Ye  seldom  see  them  dry ; 
Nae  wonder,  nae  wonder,  my  bonnie  boy, 

Though  she  suld  brast  and  die ! 

"For  she  was  born  a  king's  daughter, 

Of  noble  birth  and  fame, 
And  now  she  is  Hynde  Etin's  wife, 

Wha  ne'er  got  Christendome. 

"  But  we'll  shoot  the  laverock  in  the  lift, 

The  buntlin  on  the  tree ; 
And  ye'll  take  theme  hame  to  your  mither, 

An'  see  if  blythe  she'll  be." 

It  fell  upon  another  day, 
Hynde  Etin  he  thocht  lang  ; 

And  he  is  to  the  gude  greenwood, 
As  fast  as  he  can  gang. 

Wi'  bow  and  arrow  by  his  side, 
He's  off,  single,  alane, 


FAIRIES.  265 

And  left  his  seven  bairns  to  stay 
Wi'  their  mither  at  home. 

"  I'll  tell  you,  mither,"  quoth  the  auldest  son, 

*'  An'  ye  wadna  angry  be;" 
"  Speak  on,  speak  on,  my  bonnie  boy, 

Ye'se  nay  be  quarrelled  by  me." 

"  As  we  came  from  the  hynd-hunting, 

We  heard  fine  music  ring  !" 
"  My  blessings  on  ye,  my  bonnie  boy ! 

I  wish  I'd  been  there,  my  lane !" 

He's  ta'en  his  mither  by  the  hand — 

His  six  brothers  also ; 
And  they  are  on  through  Elmond  wood 

As  fast  as  they  could  go. 

They  wistna  weel  where  they  were  gaun, 

Wi'  the  stratlings  o'  their  feet ; 
They  wistna  weel  where  they  were  gaun, 

Till  at  her  father's  yett. 

"  I  hae  nae  money  in  my  pocket, 

But  royal  rings  hae  three ; 
I'll  gie  them  you,  my  auldest  son, 

And  ye'll  walk  there  for  me : 

"  Ye'll  gie  the  first  to  the  proud  porter, 

And  he  will  let  you  in ; 
Ye'll  gie  the  next  the  butler  boy, 

And  he  will  show  you  ben : 

"  Ye'll  gie  the  next  to  the  ministrell 

That  plays  before  the  king  ; 
He'll  play  success  to  the  bonnie  boy, 

Cam  through  the  wood  his  lane." 

He  gae  the  first  the  proud  porter, 

And  he  opened  and  let  him  in. 
He  gae  the  next  to  the  butler-boy, 

And  he  has  shown  him  ben. 

He  gae  the  third  to  the  ministrell 

That  play'd  before  the  king ; 
And  he  play'd  success  to  the  bonnie  boy 

Cam  through  the  wood  his  lane. 
12 


266  FAIRIES, 

Now  when  he  came  before  the  king, 

He  fell  low  on  his  knee ; 
The  king  he  turn'd  him  round  about, 

And  the  saut  tear  blint  his  e'e. 

"  Win  up,  win  up,  my  bonnie  boy  ! 

Gang  frae  my  companie  ! 
Ye  look  sae  like  my  dear  dauchter, 

My  heart  will  burst  in  three." 

"  If  I  look  like  your  dear  dauchter, 

A  wonder  it  is  none : 
If  I  look  like  your  dear  dauchter, 

I  am  her  eldest  son." 

"  Will  ye  tell  me,  my  little  wee  boy, 
Where  may  my  Margaret  be  ?" 

"  She's  gist  now  standing  at  your  yetts, 
And  my  six  brothers  her  wi'." 

"  0  where  are  a'  my  porter  boys, 
That  I  pay  meat  and  fee, 

To  open  my  yetts,  baith  wide  and  braid- 
Let  her  come  in  to  me !" 

When  she  came  in  before  the  king, 
She  fell  low  on  her  knee ; 

"  Win  up,  win  up,  my  dauchter  dear, 
This  day  ye'll  dine  wi'  me." 

"  Ae  bit  I  canna  eat,  father, 

Nor  ae  drap  can  I  drink, 
Till  I  see  my  mither  and  sister  dear, 

For  lang  o'  them  I  think." 

When  she  came  in  before  the  queen, 
She  fell  low  on  her  knee : 

fl  Win  up,  win  up,  my  dauchter  dear, 
This  day  ye'se  dine  wi'  me." 

"  Ae  bit  I  canna  eat,  mither, 

Nor  ae  drop  can  I  drink, 
Until  I  see  my  dear  sister — 

For  lang  o'  her  I  think." 

And  when  her  sister  dear  cam  in, 
She  hailed  her  courteouslie  : 


FAIRIES.  267 


•*  Come  ben,  come  ben,  my  sister  dear, 
This  day  ye'se  dine  wi'  me." 

"  Ae  bit  I  canna  eat,  sister, 

Nor  ae  drop  can  I  drink, 
Until  I  see  my  dear  husband, 

For  lang  o'  him  I  think." 

"  0  where  are  all  my  rangers  bold, 

That  I  pay  meat  and  fee, 
To  search  the  forest  far  and  wide, 

And  bring  Etin  to  me  ?" 

But  out  then  spak  the  little  wee  boy, 

"  Na,  na,  this  maunna  be  ; 
Without  ye  grant  a  free  pardon, 

I  hope  ye'll  nae  him  see." 

"  0  here  I  grant  a  free  pardon, 

Weel  sealed  by  my  own  hand, 
And  see  make  search  for  Hynde  Etin, 

As  sure  as  e'er  ye  can." 

They  searched  the  country  wide  and  braid- 

The  forests  far  and  near, 
Till  they  found  him  into  Elmond  wood, 

Tearing  his  yellow  hair. 

"  Win  up,  win  up,  now,  Hynde  Etin— 

Win  up  and  boune  wi'  me ; 
We're  messengers  sent  frae  the  court — 

The  king  wants  ye  to  see." 

"  0  let  him  tak  frae  me  the  head, 

Or  hang  me  on  a  tree  ; 
For  sin  I'se  lost  my  dear  Margaret, 

Life's  nae  pleasure  to  me." 

"  Your  head  will  nae  be  touched,  Etin, 

Nor  hanged  upon  a  tree ; 
Your  leddy's  in  her  father's  court, 

And  all  she  wants  is  thee." 

When  in  he  came  before  the  king, 

He  fell  low  on  his  knee ; 
"  Win  up,  win  up,  now,  Hynde  Etin, 

This  day  ye'se  dine  wi'  me." 


268  FAIRIES. 

But  as  they  were  at  dinner  set, 

The  boy  asked  a  boon  : 
"  I  wis  we  were  in  the  good  kirk, 

For  to  get  Christendoun. 

"  We  hae  liv'd  in  gude  greenwood 

This  seven  years  and  ane  ; 
But  a'  this  time,  sin  e'er  I  mind, 

Were  ne'er  a  church  within." 

"  Your  asking's  nae  sae  great,  my  boy, 

But  granted  it  sail  be ; 
This  day  to  gude  church  ye  sail  gang, 

And  your  mither  sail  gang  ye  wi'." 

When  unto  the  gude  church  she  cam, 

She  at  the  door  did  stan' ; 
She  was  sae  sair  sunk  down  wi'  shame, 

She  waldna  come  far'r  ben, 

Then  out  it  speaks  the  parish  priest — 
f          A  good  auld  man  was  he : 

"  Come  ben,  come  ben,  niy  lily  flouir, 
Present  your  babes  to  me." 

But  they  staid  lang  in  royal  court, 

Wi'  mirth  and  high  renown ; 
And  when  her  father  was  deceased, 

She  was  heir  o'  his  crown. 

Anonymous. 


THE    FAIRY    QUEEN. 

Come  follow  me,  follow  me, 
You  fairy  elves  that  be — 
Which  circle  on  the  greene, 
Come  follow  Mab  your  Queene. 
Hand  in  hand  let's  dance  around, 
For  this  place  is  fairy  ground. 

When  mortals  are  at  rest, 

And  snoring  in  their  nest, 

Unheard  and  unespy'd 

Through  key-holes  we  do  glide ; 
Over  tables,  stools,  and  shelves, 
We  trip  it  with  our  fairy  elves. 


FAIRIES.  269 

And  if  the  house  be  foul, 

With  platter,  dish,  or  bowl, 

Up  stairs  we  nimbly  creep, 

And  find  the  sluts  asleep  : 
There  we  pinch  their  armes  and  thighes ; 
None  escapes,  nor  none  espies 

But  if  the  house  be  swept, 

And  from  uncleanness  kept, 

We  praise  the  household  maid, 

And  duly  she  is  paid ; 
For  we  use  before  we  goe, 
To  drop  a  tester  in  her  shoe. 

Upon  a  mushroom's  head 

Our  table-cloth  we  spread ; 

A  grain  of  rye  or  wheat 

Is  manchet  which  we  eat ; 
Pearly  drops  of  dew  we  drink 
In  acorn  cups  fill'd  to  the  brink. 

The  brains  of  nightingales, 

With  unctuous  fat  of  snails, 

Between  two  cockles  stew'd, 

Is  meat  that's  easily  chew'd ; 
Tailes  of  wormes,  and  marrow  of  mice, 
Do  make  a  dish  that's  wonderous  nice. 

The  grasshopper,  gnat,  and  fly 

Serve  for  our  minstrelsie ; 

Grace  said,  we  dance  awhile, 

And  so  the  time  beguile : 
And  if  the  moone  doth  hide  her  head, 
The  gloe-worm  lights  us  home  to  bed. 

On  tops  of  dewie  grasse 

So  nimbly  we  do  passe, 

The  young  and  tender  stalk 

Ne'er  bends  when  we  do  walk ; 
Yet  in  the  morning  may  be  seene 
Where  we  the  night  before  have  beene. 

Anonymous,  about  the  year  1600. 


270  FAIRIES. 


THE  MERRY  PRANKS  OF  ROBIN  GOOD-FELLOW. 

From  Oberon,  in  fairy  land, 

The  king  of  ghosts  and  shadowes  there, 
Mad  Robin,  I,  at  his  command,     ,•  ... 
Am  sent  to  viewe  the  night -sports  here. 
What  re  veil  rout 
Is  kept  about 

In  every  corner  where  I  go, 
I  will  o'ersee 
And  merrie  be, 
And  make  good  sport  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

More  swift  than  lightning  can  I  flye 

About  the  aery  welkin  soone, 
And  in  a  minute's  space  descrye 

Each  thing  that's  done  belowe  the  moone. 

There's  not  a  hag 

Or  ghost  shall  wag, 
Or  cry  'ware  goblins  !  where  I  go, 

But  Robin,  I, 

Their  feates  will  spy, 
And  send  them  home  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Whene'er  such  wanderers  I  meete, 

As  from  their  night-sports  they  trudge  home, 
With  counterfeiting  voice  I  greete, 
And  call  them  on  with  me  to  roame. 

Thro'  woods,  thro'  lakes, 

Thro'  bogs,  thro'  brakes  ; 
Or  else,  unseene,  with  them  I  go, 

All  in  the  nicke, 

To  play  some  tricke, 
And  frolick  it  with  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Sometimes  I  meete  them  like  a  man  ; 

Sometimes  an  ox,  sometimes  a  hound, 
And  to  a  horse  I  turn  me  can, 

To  trip  and  trot  about  them  round, 
But,  if  to  ride, 
My  backe  they  stride, 
More  swift  than  wind  away  I  goe, 
O'er  hedge  and  lands, 
Thro'  pools  and  ponds, 
I  whirry,  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho 


FAIRIES.  271 


When  lads  and  lasses  merry  be, 

With  possets,  and  with  junkets  fine  ; 
Unseene  of  all  the  company, 

I  eat  their  cakes  and  sip  their  wine  ; 
And  to  make  sport 
I  fume  and  snort, 
And  out  the  candles  I  do  blow  : 

The  maids  I  kiss, 
They  shrieke,  Who's  this  ? 
I  answer  nought  but  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Yet  now  and  then,  the  maids  to  please, 

At  midnight  I  card  up  their  wooll ; 
And  while  they  sleepe  and  take  their  ease, 
With  wheel,  to  threads  their  flax  I  pull. 
I  grind  at  mill, 
Their  malt  up  still ; 
I  dress  their  hemp,  I  spin  their  tow. 
If  any  wake, 
And  would  me  take, 
I  wend  me  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  house  or  hearth  doth  sluttish  lye, 

I  pinch  the  maidens  black  and  blue, 
The  bedd-clothes  from  the  bedd  pull  I, 
And  in  their  ear  I  bawl  too-whoo  ! 

'Twixt  sleepe  and  wake 

I  do  them  take, 
And  on  the  clay-cold  floor  them  throw, 

If  out  they  cry, 

Then  forth  I  fly, 
And  loudly  laugh  out  ho,  ho,  ho  ' 

When  any  need  to  borrow  ought, 

We  lend  them  what  they  do  require, 
And  for  the  use  demand  we  nought, 
Our  owne  is  all  we  do  desire. 

If  to  repay, 

They  do  delay, 
Abroad  amongst  them  then  I  go, 

And  night  by  night, 

I  them  affright, 
With  pinchings,  dreams,  and  ho,  ho,  ho ! 

When  lazie  queans  have  nought  to  do, 
But  study  how  to  cog  and  lye, 


272  FAIRIES. 

To  make  debate  and  mischief  too, 
'Twixt  one  another  secretly 

I  marke  their  gloze, 

And  it  disclose, 
To  them  whom  they  have  wronged  so. 

When  I  have  done, 

I  get  me  gone 
And  leave  them  scolding,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

When  men  do  traps  and  engines  set 

In  loope  holes,  where  the  vermine  creepe, 
Who  from  their  foldes  and  houses  get 

Their  duckes  and  geese,  and  lambes  and  sheepe  ; 
I  spy  the  gin, 
And  enter  in, 

And  seeme  a  vermin  taken  so  ; 

But  when  they  there 

Approach  me  neare, 

I  leap  out  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho 

By  wells  and  rills,  in  meadowes  green, 

We  nightly  dance  our  hey-day  guise  ; 
And  to  our  fairye  kinge  and  queene 

We  chaunt  our  moon-lighte  minstrelsies. 

When  larkes  gin  singe, 

Away  we  flinge ; 
And  babes  new-born  steale  as  we  go, 

And  shoes  in  bed 

We  leave  instead, 
And  wend  us  laughing  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

From  hag-bred  Merlin's  time  have  I 

Thus  nightly  revell'd  to  and  fro  : 
And  for  my  prankes,  men  call  me  by 
The  name  of  Robin  Good-Fellow. 
Friends,  ghosts,  and  sprites 
Who  haunt  the  nightes, 
The  hags  and  goblins  do  me  know, 
And  beldames  old 
My  feates  have  told, 
So  vale,  vale,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 

Anonymous— attributed  to  BEN  JONSON,  about  1600. 


FAIRIES.  273 


SLAVIC. 

AN   OLD  BALLAD. 

The  maiden  went  for  water 

To  the  well  o'er  the  meadow  away  ; 
She  there  could  draw  no  water, 

So  thick  the  frost  it  lay. 

The  mother  she  grew  angry, 
She  had  it  long  to  bemoan ; 

"  0  daughter  mine,  0  daughter  mine, 
I  would  thou  wert  a  stone  !" 

The  maiden's  water-pitcher 

Grew  marble  instantly, 
And  she  herself,  the  maiden, 

Became  a  maple  tree. 

There  came  one  day  two  lads, 
Two  minstrels  young  they  were  ; 

"  We've  traveled  far,  my  brother, 
Such  a  maple  we  saw  nowhere. 

"  Come  let  us  cut  a  fiddle, 
One  fiddle  for  me  and  you, 

And  from  the  same  fine  maple, 
For  each  one,  fiddlesticks  two." 

They  cut  into  the  maple — 
Then  splashed  the  blood  so  red ; 

The  lads  fell  to  the  ground, 
So  sore  were  they  afraid. 

Then  spake  from  within  the  maiden  : 
"  Wherefore  afraid  are  you  ? 

Cut  out  of  me  one  fiddle, 

And  for  eacli  one  fiddlesticks  two. 

"  Then  go  and  play  right  sadly, 
To  my  mother's  door  begone, 

And  sing  :  Here  is  thy  daughter 
Whom  thou  didst  curse  to  stone." 

The  lads  they  went,  and  sadly 

Their  song  to  play  began  ; 
The  mother  when  she  heard 

Right  to  the  window  ran. 
12* 


274  FAIRIES. 


"  0  lads,  dear  lads,  be  silent, 

Do  not  my  pain  increase, 
For  since  I've  lost  my  daughter, 

My  pain  doth  never  cease  !" 

Translated  by  MRS.  KOBINSOH. 


COTTAGE    FAIRY. 

"  Sisters !  I  have  seen  this  night 

A  hundred  cottage  fires  burn  bright, 

And  a  thousand  happy  faces  shining 

In  the  burning  blaze,  and  the  gleam  declining. 

I  care,  not  I,  for  the  stars  above, 

The  lights  on  earth  are  the  lights  I  love ; 

Let  Venus  blur  the  evening  air, 

Uprise  at  morn  Prince  Lucifer ; 

But  those  little  tiny  stars  be  mine 

That  through  the  softened  copse- wood  shine, 

With  beauty  crown  the  pastoral  hill, 

And  glimmer  o'er  the  sylvan  rill, 

Where  stands  the  peasant's  ivied  nest, 

And  the  huge  mill-wheel  is  at  rest. 

From  out  the  honeysuckle's  blcom 

I  peep'd  into  that  laughing  room, 

Then,  like  a  hail-drop  on  the  pane, 

Pattering,  I  still'd  the  din  again, 

While  every  startled  eye  looked  up, 

And,  half-raised  to  her  lips  the  cup, 

The  rosy  maiden's  look  met  mine ! 

But  I  vail'd  mine  eyes  with  the  silken  twine 

Of  the  small  wild  roses,  clustering  thickly ; 

Then  to  her  seat  returning  quickly, 

She  'gan  to  talk  with  bashful  glee 

Of  fairies  'neath  the  greenwood  tree 

Dancing  by  moonlight,  and  she  blest 

Gently  our  silent  land  of  rest. 

The  infants  playing  on  the  floor, 

At  these  wild  words  their  sports  gave  o'er, 

And  ask'd  where  liv'd  the  Cottage  Fairy  ; 

The  maid  replied,  *  She  loves  to  tarry 

Oft  times  beside  our  very  hearth, 

And  joins  in  little  children's  mirth, 


FAIRIES.  275 

When  they  are  gladly  innocent ; 
And  sometimes  beneath  the  leafy  tent, 
That  murmurs  round  our  cottage  door, 
Our  overshadowing  sycamore, 
We  see  her  dancing  in  a  ring, 
And  hear  the  blessed  creature  sing — 
A  creature  full  of  gentleness, 
Rejoicing  in  our  happiness.' 
Then  pluck'd  I  a  wreath  with  many  a  gem 
turning  -  a  flowery  diadem — 
And  through  the  wicket,  with  a  glide 
I  slipped,  and  sat  me  down  beside 
The  youngest  of  those  infants  fair, 
And  wreath' d  the  blossoms  in  her  hair. 
«  Who  placed  these  flowers  on  William's  head  ?; 
The  little  wondering  sister  said, 
'  A  wreath  not  half  so  bright  and  gay, 
Crown  d  me,  upon  the  morn  of  May, 
Queen  of  that  sunny  holiday.' 
The  tiny  monarch  laughed  aloud 
With  pride  among  the  loving  crowd, 
And,  with  my  shrillest  voice,  I  lent 
A  chorus  to  their  merriment ; 
Then  with  such  murmur  as  a  bee 
Makes,  from  a  flower-cup  suddenly 
Borne  off  into  the  silent  sky, 
I  skimmed  away,  and  with  delight 
Sailed  down  the  calm  stream  of  the  night, 
Till  gently  as  a  flake  of  snow, 
Once  more  I  dropp'd  on  earth  below — 
*  *  *  *        .    * 

JOHN  WILSON. 


FAIRIES    IN    THE    HIGHLANDS. 


The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Cro'nest, 
She  mellows  the  shades  on  his  shaggy  breast, 
And  seems  his  huge  gray  form  to  throw 
In  a  silver  cone  on  the  wave  below ; 
His  sides  are  broken  by  spots  of  shade, 
By  the  walnut  bough  and  the  cedar  made, 
And  through  their  clustering  branches  dark, 
Glimmers  and  dies  the  firefly's  spark— 


276  FAIRIES. 

Like  starry  twinkles  that  momently  break 
Through  the  rifts  of  the  gathering  tempest's  rack. 

The  stars  are  on  the  moving  stream, 

And  fling,  as  its  ripples  gently  flow, 
A  burnish'd  length  of  wavy  beam, 

In  an  eel-like,  spiral  line  below  ; 
The  winds  are  whist,  and  the  owl  is  still, 

The  bat  in  the  shelvy  rock  is  hid, 
And  naught  is  heard  on  the  lonely  hill 
But  the  cricket's  chirp,  and  the  answer  shrill 

Of  the  gauze- winged  katydid  ; 
And  the  plaint  of  the  wailing  whippowil, 

Who  moans  unseen  and  ceaseless  sings, 
Ever  a  note  of  wail  and  woe, 

Till  morning  spreads  her  rosy  wings, 
And  earth  and  sky  in  her  glances  glow. 

'Tis  the  hour  of  fairy  ban  and  spell : 

The  wood-tick  has  kept  the  minutes  well, 

She  has  counted  them  all  with  click  and  stroke, 

Deep  in  the  heart  of  the  mountain-oak, 

And  he  has  awaken'd  the  sentry  elve, 

Who  sleeps  with  him  in  the  haunted  tree, 

To  bid  him  ring  the  hour  of  twelve, 

And  call  the  fays  to  their  revelry. 

Twelve  small  strokes  on  his  tinkling  bell 

('Twas  made  of  the  white  snail's  pearly  shell) — 

"  Midnight  comes,  and  all  is  well ! 
Hither,  hither,  wing  your  way  ! 

'Tis  the  dawn  of  the  fairy  day." 

They  come  from  beds  of  lichen  green, 

They  creep  from  the  mullein's  velvet  screen ; 

Some  on  the  backs  of  beetles  fly, 
From  the  silver  tops  of  moon-touched  trees, 

Where  they  swung  in  their  cobweb-hammocks  high . 
And  rock'd  about  in  the  evening  breeze  ; 

Some  from  the  hum-bird's  downy  nest — 
They  had  driven  him  out  by  elfin  power, 

And,  pillow'd  on  plumes  of  his  rainbow  breast, 
Had  slumber'd  there  till  the  charmed  hour  ; 

Some  had  lain  in  the  scoop  of  the  rock, 
With  glittering  ising-stars  inlaid  ; 

And  some  had  open'd  the  four-o'clock, 


FAIRIES. 

And  stole  within  its  purple  shade. 

And  now  they  throng  the  moonlight  glade. 
Above — below— on  every  side, 

Their  little  minim  forms  array'd 
In  the  tricksy  pomp  of  fairy  prid 


JOSEPH  BOOM  AN   DRAKE,  1795  1S20. 


XVII. 


OF    BEAUTY. 

******** 
npHERE  is  beauty  in  the  rolling  clouds,  and  placid  shingle  beach, 
JL   In  feathery  snows  and  whistling  winds,  and  dim  electric  skies ; 
There  is  beauty  in  the  rounded  woods  dank  with  heavy  foliage, 
In  laughing  fields  and  dented  hills,  the  valley  and  its  lake ; 
There  is  beauty  in  the  gullies,  beauty  on  the  cliffs,  beauty  in  sun  and 

shade, 
In  rocks  and  rivers,  seas  and  plains — the  earth  is  drowned  in  beauty ! 

Beauty  coileth  with  the  water-snake,  and  is  cradled  in  the  shrew-mouse's 

nest; 
She  flitteth  out  with  evening  bats,  and  the  soft  mole  hid  her  in  his 

tunnel ; 
The  limpet  is  encamped  upon  the  shore,  and  beauty  not  a  stranger  to 

his  tent ; 

The  silvery  dace  and  golden  carp  thread  the  rushes  with  her. 
She  saileth  into  clouds  with  an  eagle,  she  fluttereth  into  tulips  with  a 

humming-bird ; 
The  pasturing  kine  are  of  her  company,  and  she  prowleth  with  the 

leopard  in  his  jungle. 

MARTIN  F.  TUPPKR. 


MEDLEY.  279 


FRAGMENT. 

Thy  walks  are  ever  pleasant ;  every  scene 
Is  rich  in  beauty,  lively,  or  serene — 
Eich  is  that  varied  view  with  woods  around, 
Seen  from  the  seat,  within  the  shrubb'ry  bound ; 
Where  shines  the  distant  lake,  and  where  appear, 
From  ruins  bolting,  unmolested  deer ; 
Lively — the  village-green,  the  inn,  the  place, 
Where  the  good  widow  schools  her  infant  race. 
Shops,  whence  are  heard  the  hammer  and  the  saw, 
And  village-pleasures  unreproved  by  law. 
Then  how  serene,  when  in  your  favorite  room, 
Gales  from  your  jasmines  soothe  the  evening  gloom ; 
And  when  from  upland  paddock  you  look  down. 
And  just  perceive  the  smoke  which  hides  the  town ; 
When  weary  peasants  at  the  close  of  day 
Walk  to  their  cots,  and  part  upon  the  way ; 
When  cattle  slowly  cross  the  shallow  brook, 
And  shepherds  pen  their  folds,  and  rest  upon  their  crook. 

GEO.  CRABBE,  1754-1882. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    A    WALK. 

I  have  taken,  since  you  went  away,  many  of  the  walks  which  we  have 
taken  together ;  and  none  of  them,  I  believe,  without  thoughts  of  you. 
I  have,  though  not  a  good  memory  in  general,  yet  a  good  local  memory, 
and  can  recollect,  by  the  help  of  a  tree  or  a  stile,  what  you  said  on  that 
particular  spot.  For  this  reason  I  purpose,  when  the  summer  is  come, 
to  walk  with  a  book  in  my  pocket ;  what  I  read  at  my  fireside  I  forget, 
but  what  I  read  under  a  hedge  or  at  the  side  of  a  pond,  that  pond  and 
that  hedge  will  always  bring  to  remembrance ;  and  this  is  a  sort  of  me- 
moria  technica  which  I  would  recommend  to  you,  if  I  did  not  know  that 
you  have  no  occasion  for  it. 

W.  COWPBR.— Letter  to  S.  Rose,  Eaq.>  Jan.  19, 1T89. 


A    BOWER. 

In  the  pleasant  orchard  closes, 
"  God  bless  all  our  gains,"  say  we ; 
But,  *'  May  God  bless  all  our  losses," 
Better  suits  with  our  degree. 
Listen,  gentle — ay,  and  simple  !— Listen,  children,  on  the  kine ! 


280  MEDLEY. 

Green  the  land  is  where  my  daily 
Steps  in  jocund  childhood  played— 
Dimpled  close  with  hill  and  valley, 
Dappled  very  close  with  shade ; 
Summer-snow  of  apple-blossoms,  running  up  from  glade  to  glade. 

There  is  one  hill  I  see  nearer 
In  my  vision  of  the  rest ; 
And  a  little  wood  seems  clearer, 
As  it  climbeth  from  the  west, 
Sideway  from  the  tree-locked  valley  to  the  airy  upland  crest. 

Small  the  wood  is,  green  with  hazels, 
And,  completing  the  ascent, 
Where  the  wind  blows  and  sun  dazzles, 
Thrills,  in  leafy  tremblement, 
Like  a  heart  that  after  climbing  beateth  quickly  through  content. 

Not  a  step  the  wood  advances 
O'er  the  open  hill-top's  bound  ; 
There  in  green  arrest  the  branches 
See  their  image  on  the  ground  : 
You  may  walk  beneath  them  smiling,  glad  with  sight  and  glad  with  sound. 

For  you  hearken  on  your  right  hand 
How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 
In  the  greenwood,  out  of  sight  and 
Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all, 
And  the  squirrels  crack  the  filberts,  through  their  cheerful  madrigal. 

On  your  left  the  sheep  are  cropping 
The  slant  grass  and  daisies  pale  ; 
And  fine  apple-trees  stand  dropping 
Separate  shadows  toward  the  vale, 
Over  which,  in  choral  silence,  the  hills  look  you  their  "  All  hail  !*; 

Far  out,  kindled  by  each  other, 
Shining  hills  on  hills  arise  ; 
Close  as  brother  leans  to  brother, 
When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  some  father  praying  blessings  from  the  gifts  of  paradise. 

While  beyond,  above  them  mounted, 
And  above  their  woods  also, 
Malvern  hills,  for  mountains  counted 
Not  unduly,  loom  a  row —         \ 
Keepers  of  Piers  Plowman's  visions,  through  the  sunrlvne  and  the  snow. 


MEDLEY.  281 

Yet  in  childhood  little  prized  I 
That  fair  walk  and  far  survey ; 
'Twas  a  straight  walk,  unadvised  by 
The  least  mischief  worth  a  nay — 
Up  and  down — as  dull  as  grammar  on  an  eve  of  holiday  ! 

But  the  wood,  all  close  and  clenching, 
Bough  in  bough,  and  root  in  root — 
No  more  sky,  for  over-branching, 
At  your  head  than  at  your  foot — 
Oh !  the  wood  drew  me  within  it,  by  a  glamour  past  dispute. 

Few  and  broken  paths  showed  through  it 
Where  the  sheep  had  tried  to  run — 
Forced  with  snowy  wool  to  strew  it 
Hound  the  thickets,  when  anon 
They  with  silly  thorn-pricked  noses  bleated  back  unto  the  sun. 

But  my  childish  heart  beat  stronger 
Than  those  thickets  dared  to  grow  : 
I  could  pierce  them  !  I  could  longer 
Travel  on,  methought,  than  so  ! 

Sheep  for  sheep-paths !   braver  children  climb  and  creep  where  they 
would  go. 

And  the  poets  wander,  said  I, 
Over  places  all  as  rude  ! 
Bold  Rinaldo's  lovely  lady 
Sat  to  meet  him  in  a  wood — 
Rosalinda,  like  a  fountain,  laughed  out  pure  with  solitude. 

And  if  Chaucer  had  not  traveled 
Through  a  forest  by  a  well, 
He  had  never  dream'd  nor  marveled 
At  those  ladies  fair  and  fell 
Who  lived  smiling,  without  loving,  in  their  island  citadel. 

Thus  I  thought  of  the  old  singers, 
And  took  courage  from  their  song, 
Till  my  little  struggling  fingers 
Tore  asunder  gyve  and  thong 
Of  the  lichens  which  entrapped  me,  and  the  barrier  branches  strong. 

On  a  day,  such  pastime  keeping, 
With  a  fawn's  heart  debonnaire, 
Under-crawling,  over-leaping 
Thorns  that  prick  and  boughs  that  bear, 
I  stood  suddenly  astonished — I  was  gladdened  unaware  ! 


282  MEDLEY. 

From  the  place  I  stood  in  floated 
Back  the  covert  dim  and  close, 
And  the  open  ground  was  coated 
Carpet- smooth  with  grass  and  moss, 
And  the  blue-bell's  purple  presence  signed  it  worthily  across. 

Here  a  linden-tree  stood  brightening 
All  adown  its  silver  rind  ; 
For  as  some  trees  draw  the  lightning, 
So  this  tree,  unto  my  mind, 
Drew  to  earth  the  blessed  sunshine,  from  the  sky  where  it  was  shrined. 

Tall  the  linden-tree,  and  near  it 
An  old  hawthorn  also  grew ; 
And  wood-ivy,  like  a  spirit, 
Hovered  dimly  round  the  two, 
Shaping  thence  that  bower  of  beauty,  which  I  sing  of  thus  to  you. 

'Twas  a  bower  for  garden  fitter 
Than  for  any  woodland  wide ! 
Though  a  fresh  and  dewy  glitter 
Struck  it  through,  from  side  to  side, 
Shaped  and  shaven  was  the  freshness,  as  by  garden-cunning  plied. 

Oh,  a  lady  might  have  come  there, 
Hooded  fairly,  like  her  hawk, 
With  a  book  or  lute  in  summer, 
And  a  hope  of  sweeter  talk — 
Listening  less  to  her  own  music,  than  for  footsteps  on  the  walk. 

ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


MIST    OF    THE    MOUNTAIN-TOP. 

Like  mist  on  a  mountain-top  broken  and  gray, 
The  dream  of  my  early  day  fleeted  away  ; 
Now  the  evening  of  life  with  its  shadows  steal  on, 
And  memory  reposes  on  years  that  are  gone  ! 

Wild  youth  with  strange  fruitage  of  errors  and  tears — 
A  midday  of  bliss  and  a  midnight  of  fears— 
Though  checker'd  and  sad,  and  mistaken  you've  been, 
Still  love  I  to  muse  on  the  hours  we  have  seen ! 

With  those  long-vanished  hours  fair  visions  are  flown, 
And  the  soul  of  the  minstrel  sinks  pensive  and  lone ; 
In  vain  would  I  ask  of  the  future  to  bring 
The  verdure  that  gladden'd  my  life  in  its  spring  ! 


MEDLEY.  283 

I  think  of  the  glen  where  the  hazel-nut  grew — 
The  pine-crowned  hill  where  the  heather-bells  blew — 
The  trout-burn  which  soothed  with  its  murmuring  sweet, 
The  wild  flowers  that  gleamed  on  the  red-deer's  retreat ! 

I  look  for  the  mates  full  of  ardor  and  truth, 
Whose  joys,  like  my  own,  were  the  sunbeams  of  youth — 
They  passed  ere  the  morning  of  hope  knew  its  close — 
They  left  me  to  sleep  where  our  fathers  repose  ! 

Where  is  now  the  wide  hearth  with  the  big  fagot's  blaze, 
Where  circled  the  legend  and  song  of  old  days  ? 
The  legend  's  forgotten,  the  hearth  is  grown  cold, 
The  home  of  my  childhood  to  strangers  is  sold  ! 

Like  a  pilgrim  who  speeds  on  a  perilous  way, 

I  pause,  ere  I  part,  oft  again  to  survey 

Those  scenes  ever  dear  to  the  friends  I  deplore, 

Whose  feast  of  young  smiles  I  may  never  share  more ! 

WILLIAM  MOTHBBWKLL,  1798-1835. 


EMBLEM. 

A   FLOWER   GARDEN   WITH    SUNSHINE   AND   RAIN. 

When  all  the  year  our  fields  are  fresh  and  green, 
And  while  sweet  flowers  and  sunshine  every  day, 

As  oft  as  need  requireth,  come  between 
The  heav'ns  and  earth,  they  heedless  pass  away. 

The  fullness  and  continuance  of  a  blessing 
Do  make  us  to  be  senseless  of  the  good  ; 

And  if  it  sometime  fly  not  our  possessing, 
The  sweetness  of  it  is  not  understood. 

Had  we  no  winter,  summer  would  be  thought 
Not  half  so  pleasing  ;  and  if  tempests  were  not, 

Such  comforts  could  not  by  a  calm  be  brought ; 
For  things,  save  by  their  opposites,  appear  not. 

Both  health  and  wealth  are  tasteless  unto  some  ; 
And  so  is  ease,  and  every  other  pleasure, 

Till  poor,  or  rich,  or  grieved  they  become ; 
And  then  they  relish  these  in  ampler  measure. 

God,  therefore,  full  as  kind  as  he  is  wise, 
So  tempereth  all  the  favors  he  will  do  us, 

That  we  his  bounties  may  the  better  prize, 
And  make  hie  chastisements  less  bitter  to  us. 


284  MEDLEY, 

One  while  a  scorching  indignation  burns 
The  flowers  and  blossoms  of  our  hopes  away, 

Which  into  scarcity  our  plenty  turns, 
And  changeth  unmown  grass  to  parched  hay ; 

Anon  his  fruitful  showers  and  pleasing  dews, 
Commixt  with  cheerful  rays,  he  sendeth  down  ; 

And  then  the  barren  earth  her  crop  renews, 
Which  with  rich  harvests  hills  and  valleys  crown  : 

For,  as  to  relish  joys  he  sorrow  sends, 

So  comfort  on  temptation  still  attends. 

GEORGE  WITHER,  1588-166T. 


SONG. 

Composed  by  Robert  Duke  of  Normandy,  when  a  prisoner  in  Cardiff  Castle,  and  addressed  to  an  old 
oak,  growing  in  an  ancient  camp  within  view  from  the  tower  in  which  he  was  confined.  Imitated 
by  Bishop  Heber. 

Oak,  that  stately  and  alone 

On  the  war-worn  mound  hast  grown, 

The  blood  of  man  thy  sapling  fed, 

And  dyed  thy  tender  root  in  red  ; 
Woe  to  the  feast  where  foes  combine, 
Woe  to  the  strife  of  words  and  wine ! 

Oak,  thou  hast  sprung  for  many  a  year, 
'Mid  whisp'ring  rye-grass  tall  and  sere, 
The  coarse  rank  herb,  which  seems  to  show 
That  bones  unbless'd  are  laid  below ; 

Woe  to  the  sword  that  hates  its  sheath, 

Woe  to  th'  unholy  trade  of  death  ! 

Oak,  from  the  mountain's  airy  brow, 
Thou  view'st  the  subject  woods  below, 
And  merchants  hail  the  well-known  tree, 
Returning  o'er  the  Severn  sea. 

Woe,  woe  to  him  whose  birth  is  high, 

For  peril  waits  on  royalty  ! 

Now  storms  have  bent  thee  to  the  ground, 

And  envious  ivy  clips  thee  round  ; 

And  shepherd  hinds  in  wanton  play 

Have  stripped  thy  needful  bark  away ; 
Woe  to  the  man  whose  foes  are  strong, 
Thrice  woe  to  him  who  lives  too  long ! 
EEGINA.LD  HEBEB.  EOBKRT  OF  NORMANDY,  about  HOT. 


MEDLEY.  285 


TO     A     MOUNTAIN-DAISY, 


Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flow'r, 
Thou's  met  met  me  in  an  evil  hour, 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  pow'r, 

Thou  bonnie  gem ! 

Alas !  it's  no  thy  neibor  sweet, 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet, 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewie  weet, 

Wi'  speckled  breast, 
When  upward  springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth, 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm — 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 

Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flow'rs  our  gardens  yield, 
High  shelt'ring  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield  ; 
But  thou,  beneath  the  random  bield, 

0'  clod  or  stane, 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field, 

Unseen,  alane. 

There  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad, 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sun-ward  spread, 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid, 
Sweet  flow'ret  of  the  rural  shade ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd, 

And  guileless  breast; 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 


286  MEDLEY. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard, 

On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd, 

Unskillful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore, 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard, 

And  whelm  him  o'er. 

Such  fate  to  suffering  worth  is  giv'n, 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striv'n, 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driv'n, 

To  mis'ry's  brink ; 
Till  wrench'd  of  ev'ry  stay  but  Heav'n, 

He  ruin'd  sink. 

Ev'n  thou  who  mourn'st  the  daisy's  fate, 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date ; 
Stern  ruin's  plowshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom, 
Till,  crush'd  beneath  the  furious  weight, 

Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 

EGBERT  BURKS,  1750-1796. 


MOSSGIEL. 

il  There,"  said  a  stripling,  pointing  with  much  pride 

Toward  a  low  roof,  with  green  trees  half  conceal'd, 

"  Is  Mossgiel  farm ;  and  that's  the  very  field 
Where  Burns  plow'd  up  the  daisy  !"     Far  and  wide 
A  plain  below  stretch'd  seaward  ;  while,  descried, 

Above  sea-clouds,  the  peaks  of  Arran  rose  ; 

And,  by  that  simple  notice,  the  repose 
Of  earth,  sky,  sea,  and  air  was  vivified. 

Beneath  the  random  field  of  clod  or  stone, 
Myriads  of  daisies  here  shone  forth  in  flower, 
Near  the  lark's  nest,  and  in  their  natural  hour 

Have  pass'd  away ;  less  happy  than  the  one 
That  by  the  unwilling  plowshare  died  to  prove 
The  tender  charm  of  poetry  and  love. 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  1770-1850. 


MEDLEY.  287 


THE    FOREST-LEAVES    IN    AUTUMN. 


KUOM    "  THl 


Red  o'er  the  forest  peers  the  setting  sun ; 

The  line  of  yellow  light  dies  fast  away 
That  crown'd  the  eastern  copse  ;  and  chill  and  dun 

Falls  on  the  moor  the  brief  November  day. 

Now  the  tir'd  hunter  winds  a  parting  note, 
And  Echo  bids  good-night  from  every  glade ; 

Yet  wait  awhile,  and  on  the  calm  leaves  float 
Each  to  his  rest  beneath  the  parent  shade. 

How  like  decaying  life  they  seem  to  glide ! 

And  yet  no  second  spring  have  they  in  store  ; 
But  where  they  fall  forgotten,  to  abide 

Is  all  their  portion,  and  they  ask  no  more. 

Soon  o'er  their  heads  blithe  April  airs  shall  sing  ; 

A  thousand  wild-flowers  round  them  shall  unfold  ; 
The  green  buds  glisten  in  the  dews  of  spring, 
And  all  be  vernal  rapture  as  of  old. 

Unconscious  they  in  waste  oblivion  lie, 

In  all  the  world  of  busy  life  around 
No  thought  of  them ;  in  all  the  bounteous  sky, 

No  drop,  for  them,  of  kindly  influence  found. 

Man's  portion  is  to  die  and  rise  again — 

Yet  he  complains  ;  while  these  unmurmuring  part 

With  their  sweet  lives,  as  pure  from  sin  and  stain 
As  his  when  Eden  held  his  virgin  heart. 


JOHN  KKIU.E. 


BOHEMIAN 

ANCIENT   SII.NU. 

0  ye  forests,  dark-green  forests, 
Miletinish  forests ! 
Why  in  summer,  and  in  winter, 
Are  ye  green  and  blooming  ? 
0 !  I  would  not  weep  and  cry, 
Nor  torment  my  heart. 


288  MEDLEY 


But  now  tell  me,  good  folk,  tell  me, 

How  should  not  I  cry  ? 

Ah  !  where  is  my  dear  father  ? 

Woe  !  he  lies  deep  buried. 

Where  my  mother  ?     0  good  mother  ! 

O'er  her  grows  the  grass  ! 

Brothers  have  I  not,  nor  sisters, 

And  my  lad  is  gone  ! 

Translated  by  TALVI. 


LANDSCAPE    AND    ITS    ASSOCIATIONS. 

I  wake,  I  rise ;  from  end  to  end, 

Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 

I  find  no  place  that  doth  not  breathe 
Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend  ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 

Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 
Or  sheep-walk  up  the  windy  wold; 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw, 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 

Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill, 
And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw ; 

Nor  rivulet  trickling  from  the  rock, 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
From  left  to  right  through  meadowy  curves. 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock  ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 

And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day  ; 

And  leaving  these,  to  pass  away 
I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 

ALFRED  TEXNYSOX. 

Thy  mornings  showed,  thy  nights  concealed 

The  bowers  where  Lucy  played ; 
And  thine  is,  too,  the  last  green  field 

That  Lucy's  eyes  surveyed  ! 

W.  WOBDSWORTII,  1770-1S50. 


XVIII. 


THE    OPENING    YEAR. 


ORPHAN  hours,  the  year  is  dead, 
Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep ! 
Merry  hours  smile  instead, 

For  the  year  is  but  asleep. 
See  !  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 
Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  white  winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  dead-cold  year  to-day ; 
Solemn  hours !  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 
The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 
13 


290  THE      CALENDAR. 

So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year  :  be  calm  and  mild, 
Trembling  hours ;  she  will  arise 
With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

January  gray  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave ; 
February  bears  the  bier — 

March,  with  grief,  doth  howl  and  rave ; 
And  April  weeps — but,  0  ye  hours ! 
Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY,  1792-1S22. 


ON    OBSERVING    A    BLOSSOM 

ON   THE   FIRST    OP   FEBRUARY. 

Sweet  flower !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem, 

Unfoldest  timidly  (for  in  strange  sort 

This  dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering  month 

Hath  borrowed  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  on  thee 

With  blue,  voluptuous  eye) ;  alas,  poor  flower  ! 

These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year, 

Perchance  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave. 

E'en  now  the  keen  north-east  is  on  its  way, 

Flower  thou  must  perish  !     Shall  I  liken  thee 

To  some  sweet  girl  of  too,  too  rapid  growth  ? 

SAMUEL  T.  COLERIDGE,  1770-1849. 


FEBRUARY. 

Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
0  sweet  new  year,  delaying  long, 
Thou  dost  expectant  nature  wrong, 

Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  noons  ? 

Bring  orchis — bring  the  fox-glove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dashed  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums  dropping  wells  of  fire. 


I 


Y 


THE      CALENDAR.  291 

0  thou  new  year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 

That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 
And  flood  a  fresher  throat  of  song. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON*. 


MARCH. 

The  stormy  March  is  come  at  last, 

With  wind,  and  cloud,  and  changing  skies ; 

I  hear  the  rushing  of  the  blast, 
That  through  the  valley  flies. 

Ah,  passing  few  are  they  who  speak, 

Wild,  stormy  month,  in  praise  of  thee ! 
Yet,  though  thy  winds  are  loud  and  bleak, 

Thou  art  a  welcome  month  to  me. 

For  thou  to  northern  lands  again 

The  glad  and  glorious  sun  dost  bring, 
And  thou  hast  joined  the  gentler  train. 

And  wear'st  the  gentle  name  of  Spring. 

And  in  thy  reign  of  blast  and  storm 

Smiles  many  a  long,  bright,  sunny  day, 
When  the  changed  winds  are  soft  and  warm, 

And  heaven  puts  on  the  blue  of  May. 

Then  sing  aloud  the  gushing  rills, 

And  the  full  springs,  from  frost  set  free, 

That,  brightly  leaping  down  the  hills, 
Are  just  set  out  to  meet  the  sea. 

The  year's  departing  beauty  hides 

Of  wintry  storms  the  sullen  threat ; 
But  in  thy  sternest  form  abides 

A  look  of  kindly  promise  yet. 

Thou  bring'st  the  hope  of  those  calm  skies, 

And  that  soft  time  of  sunny  showers, 
When  the  wide  bloom,  on  earth  that  lies, 

Seems  of  a  brighter  world  than  ours. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 


292  THE      CALENDAR. 


APRIL. 

All  day  the  low  hung  clouds  have  dropped 

Their  garnered  fullness  down ; 
All  day  that  soft  gray  mist  hath  wrapped 

Hill,  valley,  grove,  and  town. 

There  has  not  been  a  sound  to-day 

To  break  the  calm  of  nature  ; 
Nor  motion,  I  might  almost  say, 

Of  life  or  living  creature ; 

Of  waving  bough,  or  warbling  bird, 

Or  cattle  faintly  lowing — 
I  could  have  half  believed  I  heard 

The  leaves  and  blossoms  growing. 

For  leafy  thickness  is  not  yet 

Earth's  naked  breast  to  screen, 
Though  every  dripping  branch  is  set 

With  shoots  of  tender  green. 

Sure,  since  I  looked  at  early  morn, 

These  honeysuckle  buds 
Have  swelled  to  double  growth  ;  that  thorn 

Hath  put  forth  larger  studs  ; 

That  lilac's  cleaving  cones  have  burst, 
The  milk-white  flowers  revealing  ; 

Even  now  upon  my  senses  first, 
Methinks  their  sweets  are  stealing 

The  very  earth,  the  steaming  air, 

Is  all  with  fragrance  rife ; 
And  grace  and  beauty  everywhere 

Are  flushing  into  life. 

Down,  down  they  come — those  fruitful  stores  ! 

Those  earth-rejoicing  drops! 
A  momentary  deluge  pours, 

Then  thins,  decreases,  stops. 

And  ere  the  dimples  on  the  stream, 

Have  circled  out  of  sight, 
Lo  !  from  the  west  a  parting  gleam 

Breaks  forth  of  amber  light. 


THE      CALENDAR.  293 

But  yet,  behold !  abrupt  and  loud, 

Comes  down  the  glittering  rain  ; 
The  farewell  of  a  passing  cloud, 

The  fringes  of  her  train. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


APRIL. 

FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

April,  season  blest  and  dear. 
Hope  of  the  reviving  year ; 
Promise  of  bright  fruits  that  lie 
In  their  downy  canopy, 
Till  the  nipping  winds  are  past, 
And  their  vails  aside  are  cast ! 
April,  who  delight'st  to  spread 
O'er  the  emerald-laughing  mead 
Flowers  of  fresh  and  brilliant  dyes, 
Rich  in  wild  embroideries ! 
April,  who  each  zephyr's  sigh 
Dost  with  perfumed  breath  supply, 
When  they  through  the  forest  rove, 
Spreading  wily  nets  of  love, 
That,  for  lovely  Flora  made, 
May  detain  her  in  the  shade  ! 
April,  by  thy  hand  caressed, 
Nature,  from  her  genial  breast, 
Loves  her  richest  gifts  to  shower, 
And  awakes  her  magic  power, 
Till  all  earth  and  air  are  rife^ 
With  delight,  and  hope,  and  life  ! 

April,  nymph  forever  fair, 
On  my  mistress'  sunny  hair, 
Scattering  wreaths  of  odors  sweet, 
For  her  snowy  bosom  meet ! 
April,  full  of  smiles  and  grace, 
Drawn  from  Venus'  dwelling-place  ; 
Thou,  from  earth's  enamel'd  plain, 
Yield'st  the  gods  their  breath  again. 
'Tis  thy  courteous  hand  doth  bring 
Back  the  messenger  of  spring ; 
And  his  tedious  exile  o'er, 
Hail'st  the  swallow's  wing  once  more. 


294  THE      CALENDAR. 

The  eglantine,  the  hawthorn  bright, 
The  thyme  and  pink,  and  jasmine  white, 
Don  their  purest  robes  to  be 
Guests,  fair  April,  worthy  thee. 

The  nightingale—  sweet  hidden  sound  ! 
'Midst  the  clustering  boughs  around, 
Charms  to  silence  notes  that  wake 
Soft  discourse  from  bush  and  brake, 
And  bids  every  listening  thing 
Pause  awhile  to  hear  her  sing. 

'Tis  to  thy  return  we  owe 
Love's  fond  sighs,  that  learn  to  glow 
After  winter's  chilling  reign 
Long  has  bound  them  in  her  chain. 
'Tis  thy  smile  to  being  warms 
All  the  busy,  shining  swarms, 
Which,  on  perfumed  pillage  bent, 
Fly  from  flower  to  flower  intent, 
Till  they  load  their  golden  thighs 
With  the  treasure  each  supplies. 

May  may  boast  her  ripened  hues, 
Richer  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  dews, 
And  those  glowing  charms  that  well 
All  the  happy  world  can  tell  ; 
But,  sweet  April,  thou  shalt  be 

Still  a  chosen  month  for  me. 

***** 

Translation  of  Miss  COSTELLO.  EEMI  BELLEAIT,  1528-1577. 


ODE    TO    FIRST    OF    APRIL. 

***** 

Mindful  of  disaster  past, 
And  shrinking  at  the  northern  blast, 
The  sleety  storm  returning  still, 
The  morning  hoar,  and  evening  chill, 
Reluctant  comes  the  timid  spring. 
Scarce  a  bee,  with  airy  ring, 
Murmurs  the  blossom'd  boughs  around, 
That  clothe  the  garden's  southern  bound  ; 
Scarce  a  sickly,  straggling  flower 
Decks  the  rough  castle's  rifted  tower  ; 


THE      CALENDAR.  295 

Scarce  the  hardy  primrose  peeps 
From  the  dark  dell's  entangled  steeps ; 
O'er  the  fields  of  waving  broom 
Slowly  shoots  the  golden  bloom  ; 
And,  but  by  fits,  the  furze-clad  dale 
Tinctures  the  transitory  gale ; 
While  from  the  shrubbery's  naked  maze, 
Where  the  vegetable  blaze 
Of  Flora's  brightest  'broidery  shone, 
Every  checker'd  charm  is  flown ; 
Save  that  the  lilac  hangs  to  view 
Its  bursting  gems  in  clusters  blue. 

Scant  along  the  ridgy  land 
The  beans  their  new-born  ranks  expand ; 
The  fresh-turn'd  soil,  with  tender  blades, 
Thinly  the  sprouting  barley  shades  : 
Fringing  the  forest's  devious  edge, 
Half-rob'd  appears  the  hawthorn  hedge ; 
Or  to  the  distant  eye  displays, 
Weakly  green  its  budding  sprays. 

The  swallow,  for  a  moment  seen, 
Skims  in  haste  the  village  green  ; 
From  the  gray  moor,  on  feeble  wing, 
The  screaming  plovers  idly  spring; 
The  butterfly,  gay-painted,  soon 
Explores  awhile  the  tepid  noon, 
And  fondly  trusts  its  tender  dyes 
To  fickle  suns  and  flattering  skies. 

Fraught  with  a  transient,  frozen  shower, 
If  a  cloud  should  haply  lower, 
Sailing  o'er  the  landscape  dark, 
Mute  on  a  sudden  is  the  lark ; 
But  when  gleams  the  sun  again 
O'er  the  pearl- besprinkled  plain, 
And  from  behind  his  watery  vail, 
Looks  through  the  thin  descending  hail ; 
She  mounts,  and,  lessening  to  the  sight, 
Salutes  the  blithe  return  of  light ; 
And  high  her  tuneful  track  pursues, 
'Mid  the  dim  rainbow's  scattered  hues. 

Where,  in  venerable  rows, 
Widely-waving  oaks  disclose 
The  moat  of  yonder  antique  hall, 
Swarm  the  rooks  with  clamorous  call ; 
And  to  the  toils  of  nature  true, 


296  THE      CALENDAR. 

Wreath  their  capacious  nests  anew. 

Musing  through  the  lawny  park, 
The  lonely  poet  loves  to  mark 
How  various  greens  in  faint  degrees 
Tinge  the  tall  groups  of  various  trees  ; 
While,  careless  of  the  changing  year, 
The  pine  cerulean,  never  sere, 
Towers  distinguish'd  from  the  rest, 
And  proudly  vaunts  her  winter  vest. 

Within  some  whispering  osier  isle, 
Where  Glynn's  low  banks  neglected  smile, 
And  each  trim  meadow  still  retains 
The  wintry  torrent's  oozy  stains, 
Beneath  a  willow,  long  forsook, 
The  fisher  seeks  his  'custom'd  nook ; 
And  bursting  through  the  crackling  sedge, 
That  crowns  the  current's  cavern'd  edge, 
He  startles  from  the  bordering  wood 
The  bashful  wild-duck's  early  brood. 

O'er  the  broad  downs,  a  novel  race, 
Frisk  the  lambs  with  faltering  pace, 
And  with  eager  bleatings  fill 
The  foss  that  skirts  the  beacon'd  hill. 

His  free-born  vigor,  yet  unbroke, 
To  lordly  man's  usurping  yoke, 
The  bounding  colt  forgets  to  play, 
Basking  beneath  the  noontide  ray, 
And  stretch'd  among  the  daisies  pied, 
Of  a  green  dingle's  sloping  side ; 
While  far  beneath,  where  Nature  spreads 
Her  boundless  length  of  level  meads, 
In  loose  luxuriance  taught  to  stray, 
A  thousand  tumbling  rills  inlay 
With  silver  veins  the  vale,  or  pass 
Redundant  through  the  sparkling  grass. 


THOMAS  WAETON,  1T28-1790. 


APRIL. 

Lessons  sweet  of  spring  returning, 
Welcome  to  the  thoughtful  heart ! 

May  I  call  ye  sense  or  learning, 

Instinct  pure,  or  heav'n-taught  heart  ? 


THE      CALENDAR.  297 

Be  your  title  what  it  may, 
Sweet  and  lengthening  April  day, 
While  with  you  the  soul  is  free, 
Ranging  wild  o'er  hill  and  lea ; 

Soft  as  Memnon's  harp  at  morning, 

To  the  inward  ear  devout, 
Touch'd  by  light  with  heavenly  warning, 

Your  transporting  chords  ring  out. 
Every  leaf  in  every  nook, 
Every  wave  in  every  brook, 
Chanting  with  a  solemn  voice, 
Minds  us  of  our  better  choice. 

Needs  no  show  of  mountain  hoary, 

Winding  shore  or  deepening  glen, 
Where  the  landscape  in  its  glory, 

Teaches  truth  to  wandering  men. 
Give  true  hearts  but  earth  and  sky, 
And  some  flowers  to  bloom  and  die ; 
Homely  scenes  and  simple  views, 
Lowly  thoughts  may  best  infuse. 

See  the  soft  green  willow  springing 

Where  the  waters  gently  pass, 
Every  way  her  free  arms  flinging 

O'er  the  moss  and  reedy  grass. 
Long  ere  winter  blasts  are  fled, 
See  her  tipp'd  with  vernal  red, 
And  her  kindly  flower  display'd 
Ere  her  leaf  can  cast  a  shade. 

Though  the  rudest  hand  assail  her, 

Patiently  she  droops  awhile, 
But  when  showers  and  breezes  hail  her, 

Wears  again  her  willing  smile. 
Thus  I  learn  Contentment's  power 
From  the  slighted  willow  bower, 
Ready  to  give  thanks  and  live, 
On  the  least  that  Heaven  may  give. 

If,  the  quiet  brooklet  leaving, 

Up  the  stormy  vale  I  wind, 
Haply  half  in  fancy  grieving 

For  the  shades  I  leave  behind, 
13* 


298  THE      CALENDAR. 

By  the  dusty  wayside  dear, 
Nightingales  with  joyous  cheer 
Sing,  my  sadness  to  reprove, 
Gladlier  than  in  cultur'd  grove. 


Where  the  thickest  boughs  are  twining 

Of  the  greenest,  darkest  tree, 
There  they  plunge,  the  light  declining — 

All  may  hear,  but  none  may  see. 
Fearless  of  the  passing  hoof, 
Hardly  will  they  fleet  aloof; 
So  they  live  in  modest  ways, 
Trust  entire,  and  ceaseless  praise. 

JOHN  KKBLE. 


MAY. 

Oh,  the  merry  May  has  pleasant  hours, 

And  dreamingly  they  glide, 
As  if  they  floated  like  the  leaves 

Upon  a  silver  tide. 
The  trees  are  full  of  crimson  buds, 

And  the  woods  are  full  of  birds, 
And  the  waters  flow  to  music, 

Like  a  tune  with  pleasant  words. 

The  verdure  of  the  meadow-land 

Is  creeping  to  the  hills ; 
The  sweet,  blue-bosom'd  violets 

Are  blowing  by  the  rills ; 
The  lilac  has  a  load  of  balm 

For  every  wind  that  stirs, 
And  the  larch  stands  green  and  beautiful, 

Amid  the  somber  firs. 

There's  perfume  upon  every  wind — 

Music  in  every  tree — 
Dews  for  the  moisture-loving  flowers — 

Sweets  for  the  sucking  bee ; 
The  sick  come  forth  for  the  healing  South  ; 

The  young  are  gathering  flowers ; 
And  life  is  a  tale  of  poetry, 

That  is  told  by  golden  hours. 


THE      CALENDAR.  299 

If  'tis  not  a  true  philosophy, 

That  the  spirit,  when  set  free, 
Still  lingers  about  its  olden  home, 

In  the  flower  and  in  the  tree, 
It  is  very  strange  that  our  pulses  thrill 

At  the  sight  of  a  voiceless  thing, 
And  our  hearts  yearn  so  with  tenderness 

In  the  beautiful  time  of  spring. 

N.  P.  WILL*. 


JUNE. 


The  summer-time  has  come  again, 

With  all  its  light  and  mirth, 
And  June  leads  on  the  laughing  hours 

To  bless  the  weary  earth. 

The  sunshine  lies  along  the  street, 

So  dim  and  cold  before, 
And  in  the  open  window  creeps, 

And  slumbers  on  the  floor. 

The  country  was  so  fresh  and  fine, 

And  beautiful  in  May, 
It  must  be  more  than  beautiful— 

A  Paradise  to-day ! 

If  I  were  only  there  again, 

I'd  seek  the  lanes  apart, 
And  shout  aloud  in  mighty  words, 

To  ease  my  happy  heart. 

R.  H.  STODDARD. 


JULY. 

Loud  is  the  summer's  busy  song, 
The  smallest  breeze  can  find  a  tongue, 
While  insects  of  each  tiny  size 
Grow  teasing  with  their  melodies, 
Till  noon  burns  with  its  blistering  breath 
Around,  and  day  dies  still  as  death. 
The  busy  noise  of  man  and  brute 
Is  on  a  sudden  lost  and  mute ; 


300  THE      CALENDAR. 

Even  the  brook  that  leaps  along, 

Seems  weary  of  its  bubbling  song, 

And  so  soft  its  waters  creep, 

Tired  silence  sinks  in  sounder  sleep  ; 

The  cricket  on  its  bank  is  dumb, 

The  very  flies  forget  to  hum  ; 

And,  save  the  wagon  rocking  round, 

The  landscape  sleeps  without  a  sound. 

The  breeze  is  stopp'd,  the  lazy  bough 

Hath  not  a  leaf  that  danceth  now ; 

The  taller  grass  upon  the  hill, 

And  spider's  threads  are  standing  still ; 

The  feathers  dropp'd  from  moorhen's  wing, 

Which  to  the  water's  surface  cling, 

Are  steadfast,  and  as  heavy  seem, 

As  stones  beneath  them  in  the  stream ; 

Hawkweed  and  groundsel's  fanny  downs 

Unruffled  keep  their  seedy  crowns ; 

And  in  the  oven-heated  air 

Not  one  light  thing  is  floating  there, 

Save  that  to  the  earnest  eye 

The  restless  heat  seems  twittering  by. 

Noon  swoons  beneath  the  heat  it  made, 

And  flowers  e'en  within  the  shade, 

Until  the  sun  slopes  in  the  west 

Like  weary  traveler,  glad  to  rest 

On  pillow'd  clouds  of  many  hues  ; 

Then  Nature's  voice  its  joy  renews, 

And  checkered  field  and  grassy  plain, 

Hum  with  their  summer  songs  again, 

A  requiem  to  the  day's  decline, 

Whose  setting  sunbeams  coolly  shine. 

As  welcome  to  day's  feeble  powers, 

As  falling  dews  to  thirsty  flowers. 

JOHN  CLAEE. 


AUGUST. 


A  power  is  on  the  earth  and  in  the  air, 

From  which  the  vital  spirit  shrinks  afraid, 
And  shelters  him  in  nooks  of  deepest  shade, 

From  the  hot  steam,  and  from  the  fiery  glare. 

Look  forth  upon  the  earth — her  thousand  plants 


THE      CALENDAR.  301 

Are  smitten ;  even  the  dark  sun-loving  maize 
Faints  in  the  field  beneath  the  torrid  blaze 

The  herd  beside  the  shaded  fountain  pants ; 

For  life  is  driven  from  all  the  landscape  brown ; 

The  bird  has  sought  his  tree,  the  snake  his  den, 
The  trout  floats  dead  in  the  hot  stream,  and  men 

Drop  by  the  sun-stroke  in  the  populous  town, 

As  if  the  Day  of  Fire  had  dawned  and  sent 

Its  deadly  breath  into  the  firmament. 

W.  C.  BRYANT. 

AUGUST. 

An  August  day  !  a  dreamy  haze 

Films  air,  and  mingles  with  the  skies, 
Sweetly  the  rich,  dark  sunshine  plays, 

Bronzing  each  object  where  it  lies. 
Outlines  are  melted  in  the  gauze 

That  Nature  vails ;  the  fitful  breeze 
From  the  thick  pine  low  murmuring  draws, 

Then  dies  in  flutterings  midst  the  trees. 
The  bee  is  slumbering  in  the  thistle, 
And,  now  and  then,  a  broken  whistle, 
A  tread — a  hum — a  tap— is  heard 

Through  the  dry  leaves,  in  grass  and  bush, 
As  insect,  animal,  and  bird 

Rouse  brief  from  their  lethargic  hush. 
Then  e'en  these  pleasant  sounds  would  cease, 

And  a  dread  stillness  all  things  lock  : 

The  aspen  seein  like  sculptured  rock, 

And  not  a  tassel  thread  be  shaken, 

The  monarch  pine's  deep  trance  to  waken, 
And  Nature  settle  prone  in  drowsy  peace. 
The  misty  blue — the  distant  masses. 

The  air  in  woven  purple  glimmering 
The  shiver  transiently  that  passes 
Over  the  leaves,  as  though  each  tree 

Gave  one  brief  sigh — the  slumberous  shimmering 

Of  the  red  light— invested  seem 
With  some  sweet  charm,  that  soft,  serene, 
Mellows  the  gold— the  blue — the  green 
Into  mild  temper'd  harmony, 

And  melts  the  sounds  that  intervene, 
As  scarce  to  break  the  quiet,  till  we  deem 
Nature  herself  transforin'd  to  Fancy's  dream. 

ALFRED  STHEET. 


302  THE      CALENDAR 


SEPTEMBER. 

The  meridian  sun, 

Most  sweetly  smiling  with  attemper'd  beams, 
Sheds  gently  down  a  mild  and  grateful  warmth  ; 
Beneath  its  yellow  luster  groves  and  woods, 
Checker'd  by  one  night's  frost  with  various  hues. 
While  yet  no  wind  has  swept  a  leaf  away, 
Shine  doubly  rich.     It  were  a  sad  delight 
Down  the  smooth  stream  to  glide,  and  see  it  tinged 
Upon  each  brink  with  all  the  gorgeous  hues, 
The  yellow,  red,  or  purple  of  the  trees 
That,  singly,  or  in  tufts,  or  forests  thick, 
Adorn  the  shores  ;  to  see,  perhaps,  the  side 
Of  some  high  mount  reflected  far  below, 
With  its  bright  colors,  intermixed  with  spots 
Of  darker  green.    Yes,  it  were  sweetly  sad 
To  wander  in  the  open  fields,  and  hear, 
E'en  at  this  hour,  the  noonday  hardly  past, 
The  lulling  insects  of  the  summer's  night ; 
To  hear,  where  lately  buzzing  swarms  were  heard, 
A  lonely  bee,  long  roving  here  and  there 
To  find  a  single  flower,  but  all  in  vain  ; 
Then  rising  quick,  and  with  a  louder  hum, 
In  widening  circles  round  and  round  his  head, 
Straight  by  the  listener  flying  clear  away, 
As  if  to  bid  the  fields  a  last  adieu  ; 
To  hear,  within  the  woodland's  sunny  side, 
Late  full  of  music,  nothing,  save  perhaps 
The  sound  of  nutshells,  by  the  squirrel  dropp'd 
From  some  tall  beech,  fast  falling  through  the  leaves. 

CAKLOS  WILCOX,  1794-182. 


OCTOBER. 

A   SOKNKT. 

Ay,  thou  art  welcome,  Heaven's  delicious  breath, 
When  woods  begin  to  wear  the  crimson  leaf, 
And  suns  grow  meek,  and  the  meek  suns  grow  brief, 

And  the  year  smiles  as  it  draws  near  its  death. 

Wind  of  the  sunny  south  !  oh  still  delay 
In  the  gay  woods  and  in  the  golden  air, 
Like  to  a  good  old  age  released  from  care, 


THE      CALENDAR.  303 

Journeying,  in  long  serenity,  away. 

In  such  a  bright,  late  quiet,  would  that  I 

Might  wear  out  life  like  thee,  'mid  bowers  and  brooks, 

And,  dearer  yet,  the  sunshine  of  kind  looks, 
And  music  of  kind  voices  ever  nigh  ; 
And  when  my  last  sand  twinkled  in  the  glass 
Pass  silently  from  men,  as  thou  dost  pass. 

WILLIAM  C.  BBYANT. 


NOVEMBER. 


A    SONNET. 


Yet  one  smile  more,  departing,  distant  sun  ! 

One  mellow  smile  through  the  soft  vapory  air, 
Ere,  o'er  the  frozen  earth,  the  loud  winds  run, 

Or  snows  are  sifted  o'er  the  meadows  bare. 
One  smile  on  the  brown  hills  and  naked  trees, 

And  the  dark  rocks  whose  summer  wreaths  are  cast, 
And  the  blue  gentian  flower,  that,  in  the  breeze 

Nods  lonely,  of  the  beauteous  race  the  last. 
Yet  a  few  sunny  days,  in  which  the  bee 

Shall  murmur  by  the  hedge  that  skirts  the  way, 
The  cricket  chirp  upon  the  russet  lea, 

And  men  delight  to  linger  in  thy  ray. 
Yet  one  rich  smile,  and  we  will  try  to  bear 
The  piercing  winter  frost,  and  winds,  and  darkened  air. 

WILLIAM  C.  BBYANT. 


NOVEMBER. 

November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sree ; 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn, 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen, 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken, 
So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew, 
So  feeble  trill'd  the  streamlet  through ; 
Now  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green, 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade, 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade, 
And,  foaming  brown  with  double  speed, 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 


304  THE      CALENDAR 


No  longer  Autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  forest  hills  is  shed ; 
No  more,  heneath  the  evening  beam, 
Fair  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam  ; 
Away  hath  pass'd  the  heather- bells, 
That  bloom'd  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell, 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare, 
Are  now  the  sister  heights  of  Yair. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  shelter'd  dale  and  down  are  driven, 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines, 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines  ; 
In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  withered  sward  and  wintry  sky, 
And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill, 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill : 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold, 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold ; 
His  dogs  no  merry  circles  wheel, 
But,  shivering,  follow  at  his  heel ; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast, 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


NOVEMBER    IN    ENGLAND. 

No  sun — no  moon ! 

No  morn — no  noon — 
No  dawn — no  dusk — no  proper  time  of  day — 

No  sky — no  earthly  view — 

No  distance,  looking  blue — 
No  road — no  street — no  t'other  side  the  way — 

No  end  to  any  "  row" — 

No  indications  where  the  "  crescents" 

No  top  to  any  steeple — 
No  recognitions  of  familiar  people — 

No  courtesies  for  showing  'em — 

No  knowing  'em ! — 
No  traveling  at  all — no  locomotion — 
No  inkling  of  the  way — no  notion — 

"  No  go,"  by  land  or  ocean — 

No  mail — no  post — 

No  news  from  any  foreign  coast — 


THE      CALENDAR.  305 

No  park,  no  ring — no  afternoon  gentility — 

No  company,  or  nobility — 
No  warmth,  no  cheerfulness,  no  healthful  ease, 

No  comfortable  feel  in  any  member — 
No  shade — no  shine — no  butterflies,  no  bees, 
No  fruits,  no  flowers,  no  leaves,  no  birds. 
November ! 

T.  HOOD. 


SONNET. 

NOVBMBEK,    1792. 

There  is  strange  music  in  the  stirring  wind 
When  lowers  the  autumnal  eve,  and  all  alone 
To  the  dark  wood's  cold  covert  thou  art  gone, 

Whose  ancient  trees  on  the  rough  slope-reclined 

Rock,  and  at  times  scatter  their  tresses  sear. 
If  in  such  shades,  beneath  their  murmuring, 
Thou  late  hast  pass'd  the  happier  hours  of  spring, 

With  sadness  thou  wilt  mark  the  fading  year  ; 

Chiefly  if  one,  with  whom  such  sweets  at  morn 

Or  eve  thou'st  shared,  to  distant  scenes  shall  stray.. 
0  spring,  return  !  return,  auspicious  May  ! 

But  sad  will  be  thy  coming,  and  forlorn, 

If  she  return  not  with  thy  cheering  ray, 

Who  from  these  shades  is  gone,  gone  far  away  ! 

KEV.  WILLIAM  L.  BOWLES. 


SONG 


A  spirit  haunts  the  year's  last  hours, 
Dwelling  amidst  these  yellowing  bowers  : 

To  himself  he  talks  ; 
For  at  eventide,  listening  earnestly, 
At  his  work  you  may  hear  him  sob  and  sigh, 

In  the  walks ; 

Earthward  he  boweth  the  heavy  stalks  of  the  moldering  flowers; 
Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sun-flower 
O'er  its  grave,  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 


306  THE      CALENDAR. 


The  air  is  damp,  and  hushed,  and  close, 

As  a  rich  man's  room,  where  he  taketh  repose 

An  hour  before  death  ; 

My  very  heart  faints,  and  my  whole  soul  grieves 
At  the  moist,  rich  smell  of  the  rotting  leaves, 

And  the  breath 

Of  the  fading  edges  of  box  beneath,  and  the  year's  last  rose. 
Heavily  hangs  the  broad  sun-flower 

Over  its  grave,  the  earth  so  chilly ; 
Heavily  hangs  the  hollyhock, 
Heavily  hangs  the  tiger-lily. 

ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


XIX. 


ONE  does  not  often  meet  with  Shenstone's  "  Schoolmistress" 
now-a-days,  and  as  every  year  makes  her  more  of  a 
rarity,  we  have  given  her  a  place  in  our  rustic  group.  There 
appears  to  be  no  doubt  that  Shenstone,  who  learned  to  read 
from  the  old  dame  who  taught  the  village  school  at  H  ales- 
Owen,  his  native  hamlet,  sketched  from  life,  when  he  drew 
the  old  "  Schoolmistress,"  her  blue  apron,  her  single  hen,  and 
the  noisy  little  troop  about  her.  To  us,  however,  in  these 
very  different  days,  the  simple  rustic  sketch  assumes  some- 
thing of  the  dignity  of  an  historical  picture. 

The  little  thatched  cottage  of  the  dame  is  still  to  be  seen 
near  Hales-Owen,  as  well  as  the  gabled  roof  of  the  Leasowes, 
under  which  the  poet  was  born.  The  old  homes  of  England, 
whether  cot  or  castle,  are  seldom  leveled  by  the  hand  of  man, 
and  they  long  remain  as  links  between  successive  generations. 

A  few  of  the  stanzas  have  been  omitted,  in  order  to  bring 
the  poem  within  the  limits  of  this  volume. 


308  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


THE    SCHOOLMISTRESS. 


In  every  village  mark'd  with  little  spire, 

Embower'd  in  trees,  and  hardly  known  to  Fame, 
There  dwells,  in  lowly  shed  and  mean  attire, 

A  matron  old,  whom  we  Schoolmistress  name, 
Who  boasts  unruly  brats  with  birch  to  tame  ; 

They  grieven  sore,  in  piteous  durance  pent, 
Aw'd  by  the  power  of  this  relentless  dame, 

And  ofttimes,  on  vagaries  idly  bent, 
For  unkempt  hair,  or  task  unconn'd,  are  sorely  shent. 

And  all  in  sight  doth  rise  a  birchen  tree, 

Which  Learning  near  her  little  dome  did  stowe, 
Whilom  a  twig  of  small  regard  to  see, 

Though  now  so  wide  its  waving  branches  flow, 
And  work  the  simple  vassals  mickle  woe ; 

For  not  a  wind  might  curl  the  leaves  that  blew, 
But  their  limbs  shudder'd,  and  their  pulse  beat  low  ; 

And  as  they  look'd,  they  found  their  horror  grew, 
And  shap'd  it  into  rods,  and  tingled  at  the  view. 

So  have  I  seen  (who  has  not,  may  conceive) 

A  lifeless  phantom  near  a  garden  plac'd ; 
So  doth  it  wanton  birds  of  peace  bereave, 

Of  sport,  of  song,  of  pleasure,  of  repast ; 
They  start,  they  stare,  they  wheel,  they  look  aghast ; 

Sad  servitude  !  such  comfortless  annoy 
May  no  bold  Briton's  riper  age  e'er  taste  ! 

Ne  superstition  clog  his  dance  of  joy, 
Ne  vision  empty,  vain,  his  native  bliss  destroy. 

Near  to  this  dome  is  found  a  patch  so  green, 

On  which  the  tribe  their  gambols  do  display  ; 
And  at  the  door  imprisoning-board  is  seen, 

Lest  weakly  wights  of  smaller  size  should  stray, 
Eager,  perdie,  to  bask  in  sunny  day  ! 

The  noises  intermix'd,  which  thence  resound, 
Do  Learning's  little  tenement  betray  ; 

Where  sits  the  dame,  disguis'd  in  look  profound, 
And  eyes  her  fairy  throng,  and  turns  her  wheel  around. 

Her  cap,  far  whiter  than  the  driven  snow, 
Emblem  right  meet,  of  decency  does  yield ; 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  309 

Her  apron  dy'd  in  grain,  is  blue,  I  trowe, 

As  is  the  hare-bell  that  adorns  the  field  ; 
And  in  her  hand  for  sceptre,  she  does  wield 

Tway  birchen  sprays,  with  anxious  fears  entwin'd, 
With  dark  distrust,  and  sad  repentance  fill'd, 

And  stedfast  hate,  and  sharp  affliction  join'd, 
And  fury  uncontroul'd  and  chastisement  unkind. 

Few  but  have  ken'd,  in  semblance  meet  portray'd, 

The  childish  faces  of  old  Eol's  train  ; 
Libs,  Notus,  Auster  ;  these  in  frowns  array'd, 

How  then  would  fare  on  earth,  or  sky,  or  main, 
Were  the  stern  god  to  give  his  slaves  the  rein  ? 

And  were  not  she  rebellious  breasts  to  quell, 
And  were  not  she  her  statutes  to  maintain, 

The  cot  no  more,  I  ween,  were  deem'd  the  cell, 
Where  comely  peace  of  mind  and  decent  order  dwell. 

A  russet  stole  was  o'er  her  shoulders  thrown ; 

A  russet  kirtle  fenc'd  the  nipping  air ; 
'Twas  simple  russet,  but  it  was  her  own ; 

'Twas  her  own  country  bred  the  flock  so  fair  ; 
'Twas  her  own  labour  did  the  fleece  prepare  ; 

And,  sooth  to  say,  her  pupils,  rang'd  around, 
Through  pious  awe  did  term  it  passing  rare ; 

For  they  in  gaping  wonderment  abound, 
And  think,  no  doubt,  she  been  the  greatest  wight  on  ground  ! 

Albeit  ne  flattery  did  corrupt  the  truth, 

Ne  pompous  title  did  debauch  her  ear ; 
Goody,  good- woman,  n'aunt,  forsooth, 

Or  dame,  the  sole  additions  she  did  hear  ; 
Yet  these  she  challeng'd,  these  she  held  right  dear ; 

Ne  would  esteem  him  act  as  mought  behove, 
Who  should  not  honour'd  eld  with  these  revere  ; 

For  never  title  yet  so  mean  could  prove, 
But  there  was  eke  a  mind  that  did  that  title  love. 

One  ancient  hen  she  took  delight  to  feed, 

The  plodding  pattern  of  the  busy  dame  ; 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  impelled  by  need, 

Into  her  school,  begirt  with  chickens,  came ! 
Such  favor  did  her  past  deportment  claim  ; 

And  if  Neglect  had  lavish'd  on  the  ground 
Fragment  of  bread,  she  would  collect  the  same, 

For  well  she  knew,  and  quaintly  could  expound, 
What  sin  it  were  to  waste  the  smallest  crumb  she  found. 


310  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Herbs,  too,  she  knew,  and  well  of  each  could  speak, 

That  in  her  garden  sipp'd  the  silvery  dew ; 
Where  no  vain  flower  disclos'd  a  gaudy  streak  ; 

But  herbs  for  use  and  physic  not  a  few, 
Of  grey  renown,  within  those  borders  grew ; 

The  tufted  basil,  pun-provoking  thyme, 
Fresh  baum,  and  marygold  of  cheerful  hue  ; 

The  lowly  gill,  that  never  dares  to  climb  ; 
And  more  I  fain  would  sing,  disdaining  here  to  rhyme. 

Yet  euphrasy  may  not  be  left  unsung, 

That  gives  dim  eyes  to  wander  leagues  around  ; 
And  pungent  radish,  biting  infant's  tongue ; 

And  plantain  ribb'd,  that  heals  the  reaper's  wound 
And  marjoram  sweet,  in  shepherd's  posie  found  ; 

And  lavender,  whose  spikes  of  azure  bloom 
Shall  be  erewhile  in  arid  bundles  bound, 

To  lurk  amid  the  labours  of  her  loom, 
And  crown  her  kerchiefs  clean  with  mickle  rare  perfume. 

And  here  trim  rosemarine,  that  whilom  crown'd 

The  daintiest  garden  of  the  proudest  peer, 
Ere,  driven  from  its  envied  site,  it  found, 

A  sacred  shelter  for  its  branches  here  ; 
Where  edged  with  gold  its  glittering  skirts  appear. 

Oh  wassel  days  !     0  customs  meet  and  well ! 
Ere  this  was  banish'd  from  its  lofty  sphere ; 

Simplicity  then  sought  this  humble  cell, 
Nor  ever  would  she  more  with  thane  and  lordling  dwell. 

Here  oft  the  dame,  on  Sabbath's  decent  eve, 

Hymned  such  psalms  as  Sternhold  forth  did  mete  • 
If  winter  'twere,  she  to  her  hearth  did  cleave, 

But  in  her  garden  found  a  summer-seat ; 
Sweet  melody  !  to  hear  her  then  repeat 

How  Israel's  sons,  beneath  a  foreign  king, 
While  taunting  foemen  did  a  song  entreat, 

All  for  the  nonce,  untuning  every  string, 
Uphung  their  useless  lyres — small  heart  had  they  to  sing  . 

For  she  was  just,  and  friend  to  virtuous  lore, 
And  pass'd  much  time  in  truly  virtuous  deed ; 

And  in  those  elfin  ears  would  oft  deplore 

The  times  when  Truth  by  Popish  rage  did  bleed, 

And  tortuous  Death  was  true  Devotion's  meed ; 
And  simple  Faith  in  iron  chains  did  mourn, 

That  nould  on  wooden  image  place  her  creed ; 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  311 

And  lawny  saints  in  smouldering  flames  did  burn ; 
Ah,  dearest  Lord,  forefend  thilk  days  should  e'er  return  ! 

In  elbow-chair,  like  that  of  Scottish  stem 

By  the  sharp  tooth  of  cankering  eld  defac'd, 
In  which,  when  he  receives  his  diadem, 

Our  sovereign  prince  and  liefest  liege  is  plac'd, 
The  matron  sate,  and  some  with  rank  she  grac'd, 

(The  source  of  children's  and  of  courtiers'  pride  !) 
Redress' d  affronts,  for  vile  affronts  there  pass'd  ; 

And  warn'd  them  not  the  fretful  to  deride, 
But  love  each  other  dear,  whatever  them  betide. 

Right  well  she  knew  each  temper  to  descry  ; 

To  thwart  the  proud,  and  the  submiss  to  raise  ; 
Some  with  vile  copper-prize  exalt  on  high, 

And  some  entice  with  pittance  small  of  praise ; 
And  other  some  with  baleful  sprig  she  frays ; 

E'en  absent,  she  the  reins  of  power  doth  hold, 
While  with  quaint  arts  the  giddy  crowd  she  sways ; 

Forewarn'd  if  little  bird  their  pranks  behold, 
'Twill  whisper  in  her  ear,  and  all  the  scene  unfold. 

Lo  !  now  with  state  she  utters  the  command  ; 

Eftsoons  the  urchins  to  their  tasks  repair  ; 
Their  books  of  stature  small  they  take  in  hand, 

Which  with  pellucid  horn  secured  are, 
To  save  from  fingers  wet  the  letters  fair  ; 

The  work  so  gay,  that  on  their  back  is  seen, 
St.  George's  high  achievements  doth  declare  ; 

On  which  thilk  wight  that  has  y-gazing  been, 
Kens  the  forthcoming  rod — unpleasing  sight,  I  ween  ! 

Ah  luckless  he,  and  born  beneath  the  beam 

Of  evil  star  !  it  irks  me  while  I  write  ; 
As  erst  the  bard  by  Mulla's  silver  stream, 

Oft  as  he  told  of  deadly,  dolorous  plight, 
Sigh'd  as  he  sung,  and  did  in  tears  indite. 

For,  brandishing  the  rod,  she  doth  begin 
To  loose  the  brogues,  the  stripling's  late  delight ! 

And  down  they  drop  ;  appears  his  dainty  skin, 
Fair  as  the  furry  coat  of  whitest  ermilin. 

0  ruthful  scene  !  when  from  a  nook  obscure, 

His  little  sister  doth  his  peril  see  ; 
All  playful  as  she  sate,  she  grows  demure ; 

She  finds  full  soon  her  wonted  spirits  flee ; 


312  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

She  meditates  a  prayer  to  set  him  free  ; 

Nor  gentle  pardon  could  this  dame  deny, 
(If  gentle  pardon  could  with  dames  agree) 

To  her  sad  grief,  which  swells  in  either  eye, 
And  wrings  her  so  that  all  for  pity  she  could  die. 

No  longer  can  she  now  her  shrieks  command, 

And  hardly  she  forbears,  through  awful  fear, 
To  rushen  forth,  and  with  presumptuous  hand, 

To  stay  harsh  justice  in  his  mid-career. 
On  thee  she  calls,  on  thee,  her  parent  dear  ! 

(Ah  !  too  remote  to  ward  the  shameful  blow  !) 
She  sees  no  kind  domestic  visage  near, 

And  soon  a  flood  of  tears  begins  to  flow, 
And  gives  a  loose  at  last  to  unavailing  woe. 

But  ah  !  what  pen  his  piteous  plight  may  trace  ? 

Or  what  device  his  loud  laments  explain  ? 
The  form  uncouth  of  his  disguised  face  ? 

The  pallid  hue  that  dyes  his  looks  amain  ? 
The  plenteous  shower  that  does  his  cheek  distain  ? 

When  he  in  abject  wise  implores  the  dame, 
Ne  hopeth  aught  of  sweet  reprieve  to  gain ; 

Or  when  from  high  she  levels  well  her  aim, 
And  through  the  thatch  his  cries  each  falling  stroke  proclaim. 

The  other  tribe,  aghast,  with  sore* dismay, 

Attend,  and  con  their  tasks  with  mickle  care ; 
By  turns,  astonied,  every  twig  survey, 

And  from  their  fellow's  hateful  wounds  beware, 
Knowing,  I  wis,  how  each  the  same  may  share, 

Till  fear  has  taught  them  a  performance  meet, 
And  to  the  well-known  chest  the  dame  repair, 

Whence  oft  with  sugar'd  cates  she  doth  them  greet, 
And  ginger-bread  y-rare ;  now,  certes,  doubly  sweet. 

See  to  their  seats  they  hie  with  merry  glee, 

And  in  beseemly  order  sitten  there ; 
All  but  the  wight  of  flesh  y-galled  ;  he 

Abhorreth  bench,  and  stool,  and  fourm,  and  chair ; 
(This  hand  in  mouth  y-fix'd,  that  rends  his  hair  ;) 

And  eke  with  snubs  profound,  and  heaving  breast, 
Convulsions  intermitting,  doth  declare 

His  grievous  wrong,  his  dame's  unjust  behest ; 
And  scorns  her  oflfer'd  love,  and  shuns  to  be  caress'd. 

His  face  besprent  with  liquid  crystal  shines, 
His  blooming  face  that  seems  a  purple  flower, 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  313 

Which  low  to  earth  its  drooping  head  declines, 
All  smear' d  and  sullied  by  a  vernal  shower. 
0  the  hard  bosoms  of  despotic  Power  ! 

All,  all  but  she,  the  author  of  his  shame, 
All,  all  but  she,  regret  this  mournful  hour ; 

Yet  hence  the  youth,  and  hence  the  flower,  shall  claim, 
If  so  I  deem  aright,  transcending  worth  and  fame. 
****** 

WILLIAM  SHENSTONE,  1714-1763. 


THE    HAMLET. 

AN  ODE. 

The  hinds  how  blest,  who  ne'er  beguiled 
To  quit  their  hamlet's  hawthorn  wild, 
Nor  haunt  the  crowd,  nor  tempt  the  main, 
For  splendid  care  and  guilty  gain  ! 

When  morning's  twilight-tinctured  beam 
Strikes  their  low  thatch  with  slanting  gleam, 
They  rove  abroad  in  ether  blue, 
To  dip  the  scythe  in  fragrant  dew ; 
The  sheaf  to  bind,  the  beech  to  fell, 
That  nodding  shades  a  craggy  delL 

Midst  .gloomy  glades,  in  warbles  clear, 
Wild  nature's  sweetest  notes  they  hear : 
On  green  untrodden  banks  they  view 
The  hyacinth's  neglected  hue ; 
In  their  lone  haunts,  and  woodland  rounds, 
They  spy  the  squirrel's  airy  bounds ; 
And  startle  from  her  ashen  spray, 
Across  the  glen,  the  screaming  jay  : 
Each  native  charm  their  steps  explore 
Of  Solitude's  sequester'd  store. 

For  them  the  moon  with  cloudless  ray 
Mounts,  to  illume  their  homeward  way  : 
Their  weary  spirits  to  relieve, 
The  meadows  incense  breathe  at  eve. 
No  riot  mars  the  simple  fare, 
That  o'er  a  glimmering  hearth  they  share  : 
But  when  the  curfew's  measured  roar 
Duly,  the  darkening  valleys  o'er, 
14 


314  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

Has  echoed  from  the  distant  town, 
They  wish  no  beds  of  cygnet-down, 
No  trophied  canopies,  to  close 
Their  drooping  eyes  in  quick  repose. 

Their  little  sons,  who  spread  the  bloom 
Of  health  around  the  clay-built  room, 
Or  through  the  primrosed  coppice  stray, 
Or  gambol  in  the  new-mown  hay ; 
Or  quaintly  braid  the  cowslip-twine, 
Or  drive  afield  the  tardy  kine ; 
Or  hasten  from  the  sultry  hill, 
To  loiter  at  the  shady  rill ; 
Or  climb  the  tall  pine's  gloomy  crest, 
To  rob  the  raven's  ancient  nest. 

Their  humble  porch  with  honey 'd  flowers 
The  curling  woodbine's  shade  embowers  ; 
From  the  small  garden's  thymy  mound 
Their  bees  in  busy  swarms  resound : 
Nor  fell  Disease,  before  his  time, 
Hastes  to  consume  life's  golden  prime. 
But  when  their  temples  long  have  wore 
The  silver  crown  of  tresses  hoar, 
As  studious  still  calm  peace  to  keep, 
Beneath  a  flowery  turf  they  sleep. 

T.  WARTON.  172S-1790. 


THE    NOSEGAY. 


With  us  the  nosegay  yet  retains  its  station  as  a  decoration  to  our  Sun- 
day beaux  ;  but  at  our  spring  clubs  and  associations  it  becomes  an  essen- 
tial, indispensable  appointment,  a  little  of  the  spirit  of  rivalry  seeming 
to  animate  our  youths  in  the  choice  and  magnitude  of  this  adornment. 
The  superb  spike  of  a  Brompton,  or  ten-weeks'-stock  long  cherished  in 
some  sheltered  corner  for  the  occasion,  surrounded  by  all  the  gayety  the 
garden  can  afford,  till  it  presents  a  very  bush  of  flowers,  forms  the  ap- 
pendage of  their  bosoms,  and,  with  the  gay  knots  in  their  hats,  their 
best  garments,  and  the  sprightly  hilarity  of  their  looks,  constitutes  a 
pleasing  village  scene,  and  gives  an  hour  of  unencumbered  felicity  to 
common  man  and  rural  life,  not  yet  disturbed  by  refinement  and  taste. 

J.  L.  KNAPP. 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  315 


THE    WELL    OP    ST.    KEYNE. 

A  well  there  is  in  the  west  country, 

And  a  clearer  one  never  was  seen  ; 
There's  not  a  wife  in  the  west  country 

But  has  heard  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne. 

An  oak  and  an  elm- tree  stand  beside, 

And  behind  doth  an  ash- tree  grow, 
And  a  willow  from  the  bank  above 

Droops  to  the  water  below. 

A  traveler  came  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne — 

Joyfully  he  drew  nigh ; 
For  from  cock-crow  he  had  been  traveling, 

And  there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 

He  drank  of  the  water  so  cool  and  clear, 

For  thirsty  and  hot  was  he  ; 
And  he  sat  down  upon  the  bank, 

Under  the  willow-tree. 

There  came  a  man  from  the  house  hard  by, 

At  the  well  to  fill  his  pail ; 
On  the  well-side  he  rested  it, 

And  he  bade  the  stranger  hail. 

Now  art  thou  a  bachelor,  stranger  ?"  quoth  he ! 
*'  For  an  if  thou  hast  a  wife, 
The  happiest  draught  thou  hast  drank  this  day 
That  ever  thou  didst  in  thy  life. 

"  Or  has  thy  good  woman,  if  one  thou  hast, 

Ever  here  in  Cornwall  been  ? 
For  an  if  she  have,  I'll  venture  my  life, 

She  has  drank  of  the  well  of  St.  Keyne." 

"  I  have  left  a  good  woman  who  never  was  here," 

The  stranger  he  made  reply ; 
"  But  that  my  draught  should  be  the  better  for  that, 

I  pray  you  answer  me  why." 

"  St.  Keyne,"  quoth  the  Cornishman,  "  many  a  time 

Drank  of  this  crystal  well; 
And  before  the  angel  summoned  her, 

She  laid  on  the  water  a  spell. 


316  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

"  If  the  husband,  of  this  gifted  well, 

Shall  drink  before  his  wife, 
A  happy  man  henceforth  is  he, 

For  he  shall  be  master  for  life. 

"  But  if  the  wife  should  drink  of  it  first — 

God  help  the  husband  then !" 
The  stranger  stoop'd  to  the  well  of  St.  Keyne, 

And  drank  of  the  water  again. 

*'  You  drank  of  the  well,  I  warrant,  betimes  ?" 

He  to  the  Cornishman  said ; 
But  the  Cornishman  smiled  as  the  stranger  spake, 

And  sheepishly  shook  his  head  : 

"  I  hasten' d  as  soon  as  the  wedding  was  done, 

And  left  my  wife  in  the  porch  ; 
But  i'  faith  she  had  been  wiser  than  me, 

For  she  took  a  bottle  to  church !" 
Wesfbury,  1798.  EGBERT  SotrraEY 


LOSEL'S    FAEM. 


An  hundred  udders  for  the  pail  I  have 
That  give  me  milk  and  curds  that  make  me  cheese 
To  cloy  the  markets  !     Twenty  swarm  of  bees, 
.Which  all  the  summer  hum  about  the  hive 
And  bring  me  wax  and  honey  in  bilive. 
An  aged  oak,  the  king  of  all  the  field, 
With  a  broad  beech,  there  grows  before  my  door, 
That  mickle  mast  unto  the  farm  doth  yield. 
A  chestnut  which  hath  larded  rnony  a  swine, 
Whose  skins  I  wear  to  fend  me  from  the  cold ; 
A  poplar  grey,  and  with  a  kerved  seat, 
Under  whose  shade  I  solace  in  the  heat ; 
And  thence  can  see  gang  out  and  in  my  neat. 
Twa  trilland  brooks,  each  from  his  spring  doth  meet, 
And  make  a  river  to  refresh  my  feet ; 
In  which  each  morning,  ere  the  sun  doth  rise, 
I  look  myself,  and  clear  my  pleasant  eyes, 
^  Before  I  pipe  ;  for  therein  have  I  skill 

'Bove  other  swineherds.     Bid  me,  and  I  will 
Straight  play  to  you,  and  make  you  melody. 

BEN  JONSON,  1574r-1637 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  317 


GIPSIES. 

We  have  few  gipsies  in  our  neighborhood.  In  spite  of  our  tempting 
green  lanes,  our  woody  dells,  and  heathy  commons,  the  rogues  don't 
take  to  us.  I  am  afraid  we  are  too  civilized — too  cautious ;  our  sheep- 
folds  are  too  closely  watched ;  our  barn-yards  are  too  well  guarded  ;  our 
geese  and  ducks  too  fastly  penned ;  our  chickens  too  securely  locked  up ; 
our  little  pigs  too  safe  in  their  sty;  our  game  too  scarce;  our  laun- 
dresses too  careful.  In  short,  we  are  too  little  primitive;  we  have  a 
snug  brood  of  vagabonds  and  poachers  of  our  own,  to  say  nothing  of 
their  regular  followers,  constables  and  justices  of  the  peace.  We  have 
stocks  in  the  village,  and  a  tread-mill  in  the  next  town,  and  therefore 
we  go  gipsy-less — a  misfortune  of  which  every  landscape  painter  and 
every  lover  of  that  living  landscape,  the  country,  can  appreciate  the  ex- 
tent. There  is  nothing  under  the  sun  that  harmonizes  so  well  with  na- 
ture, especially  in  her  woodland  recesses,  as  that  picturesque  people, 
who  are,  so  to  say,  the  wild  genus— the  pheasants  and  roebucks  of  the 
human  race. 

Sometimes,  indeed,  we  used  to  see  a  gipsy  procession  passing  along  the 
common,  like  an  Eastern  caravan,  men,  women,  children,  donkeys,  and 
dogs ;  and  sometimes  a  patch  of  bare  earth,  strewed  with  ashes  and  sur- 
rounded by  scathed  turf,  on  the  broad  green  margin  of  some  cross-road, 
would  give  token  of  a  gipsy  hall ;  but  a  regular  gipsy  encampment  has 
always  been  so  rare  an  event,  that  I  was  equally  surprised  and  delighted 
to  meet  with  one  in  the  course  of  my  walks  last  autumn.     *     *     *     They 
had  pitched  their  little  tent  under  one  of  the  oak  trees,  perhaps  from  a 
certain  dim  sense  of  natural  beauty,  which  those  who  live  with  nature 
in  the  fields  are  seldom  totally  without ;  perhaps  because  the  neighbor- 
hood of  the  coppices  and  of  the  deserted  hall  was  favorable  to  the  ac- 
quisition of  game,  and  of  the  little  fuel  which  their  hardy  habits  re- 
quired.    The  party  consisted  only  of  four — an  old  crone  in  a  tattered 
red  cloak  and  black  bonnet,  who  was  stooping  over  a  kettle,  of  which  the 
contents  were  probably  as  savory  as  that  of  Meg  Merrilies',  renowned  in 
story  ;  a  pretty  black- eyed  girl  at  work  under  the  trees  ;  a  sun- burned 
urchin  of  eight  or  nine,  collecting  sticks  and  dead  leaves  to  feed  their 
out-of-door  fire ;  and  a  slender  lad,  two  or  three  years  older,  who  lay 
basking  in  the  sun,  with  a  couple  of  shabby  dogs  of  the  sort  called  mon- 
grel, in  all  the  joy  of  idleness,  while  a  grave,  patient  donkey  stood 
grazing  hard  by.     It  was  a  pretty  picture,  with  its  soft  autumnal  sky, 
its  rich  woodiness,  its  verdure,  the  light  smoke  curling  from  the  fire, 
and  the  group  disposed  around  it  so  harmless,  poor  outcasts !  and  so 
happy — a  beautiful  picture !     The  old  gipsy  was  a  celebrated  fortune- 
teller, and  the  post  having  been  so  long  vacant,  she  could  not  have 


318  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

brought  her  talents  to  a  better  market.  The  whole  village  rang  with 
the  predictions  of  this  modern  Cassandra— unlike  her  Trojan  predeces- 
sor, inasmuch  as  her  prophecies  were  never  of  ill.  I  myself  could  not 
help  admiring  the  real  cleverness  and  genuine  gipsy  tact  with  which  she 
adapted  her  foretellings  to  the  age,  the  habits,  and  the  known  desires 
and  circumstances  of  her  clients. 

To  our  little  pet  Lizzy,  for  instance,  a  damsel  of  seven,  she  predicted 
a  fairing ;  to  Ben  Kirby,  a  youth  of  thirteen,  head  batter  of  the  boys,  a 
new  cricket-ball;  to  his  sister  Lucy,  a  girl  some  three  years  his  senior, 
and  just  promoted  to  that  ensign  of  womanhood — a  cap — she  promised  a 
pink  .top-knot ;  while  for  Miss  Sophia  Matthews,  our  old-maidish  school- 
mistress, who  would  be  heartily  glad  to  be  a  girl  again,  she  foresaw  one 
handsome  husband,  and  for  the  smart  widow  Simmons,  two.  These  were 
the  least  of  her  triumphs.  George  Davis,  the  dashing  young  farmer  of 
the  Hill-house,  a  gay  sportsman,  who  scoffed  at  fortune-tellers  and  mat- 
rimony, consulted  her  as  to  whose  grayhound  would  win  the  courser's 
cup  at  the  beacon  meeting,  to  which  she  replied  that  she  did  not  know 
to  whom  the  dog  would  belong,  but  that  the  winner  of  the  cup  would  be 
a  white  grayhound,  with  one  blue  ear  and  a  spot  on  its  side,  being  an 
exact  description  of  Mr.  George  Davis'  favorite  Helen,  who  followed  her 
master's  step  like  his  shadow,  and  was  standing  behind  him  at  this  very 
instant.  This  prediction  gained  our  gipsy  half-a-crown ;  and  Master 
Welles,  the  thriving,  thrifty  yeoman  of  the  lea,  she  managed  to  win  six- 
pence from  his  hard,  honest,  frugal  hand,  by  a  prophecy  that  his  old 
blood  mare,  called  Blackfoot,  should  bring  forth  twins.  And  Ned,  the 
blacksmith,  who  was  known  to  court  the  tall  nurse-maid  at  the  mill — 
she  got  a  shilling  from  Ned,  simply  by  assuring  him  that  his  wife  should 
have  the  longest  coffin  that  ever  was  made  at  our  wheelwright's  shop  : 
a  most  tempting  prediction !  ingeniously  combining  the  prospect  of  win- 
ning and  of  surviving  the  lady  of  his  heart — a  promise  equally  adapted 
to  the  hot  and  cold  fits  of  that  ague  called  love — lightening  the  fetters 
of  wedlock — uniting  in  a  breath  the  bridegroom  and  the  widower.  Ned 
was  the  best  pleased  of  all  her  customers,  and  enforced  his  suit  with 
such  vigor,  that  he  and  the  fair  giantess  were  asked  in  church  the  next 

Sunday,  and  married  at  the  fortnight's  end. 

MARY  E.  MITFOKD. 


A    STERILE    FIELD. 

Lo !  where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown  o'er, 
Sends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighboring  poor ; 
From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  appears, 
Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  wither'd  ears ; 
Rank  weeds,  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 
Reign  o'er  the  land,  and  rob  the  blighted  rye ; 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  319 

There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 
And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war ; 
There  poppies  nodding,  mock  the  hope  of  toil ; 
There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil ; 
Hardy  and  high,  above  her  slender  sheaf, 
The  shiny  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf; 
O'er  the  young  shoot  the  charlock  throws  a  shade, 
And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade ; 
With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 
And  a  sad  splendor  vainly  shines  around. 
So  looks  the  nymph  whom  wretched  arts  adorn, 
Betray'd  by  man,  then  left  for  man  to  scorn  ; 
Whose  cheek  in  vain  assumes  the  mimic  rose, 
While  her  sad  eyes  the  troubled  breast  disclose ; 
Whose  outward  splendor  is  but  folly's  dress, 
Exposing  most  when  most  it  gilds  distress. 

GEORGE  CBABBE,  1754-1832. 


THE    ENGLISH    COMMON. 

Turning  again  up  the  hill,  we  find  ourselves  on  that  peculiar  charm 
of  English  scenery,  a  green  common,  divided  by  the  road ;  the  right  side 
fringed  by  hedge-rows  and  trees,  with  cottages  and  farm-houses  irreg- 
ularly placed,  and  terminated  by  a  double  avenue  of  noble  oaks  :  the  left, 
prettier  still,  dappled  by  bright  pools  of  water,  and  islands  of  cottages  and 
cottage-gardens,  and  sinking  gradually  down  to  corn-fields  and  mead- 
ows, and  an  old  farm-house  with  pointed  roofs  and  clustered  chimneys 
looking  out  from  its  blooming  orchard,  and  backed  by  woody  hills.  The 
common  itself  is  the  prettiest  part  of  the  prospect,  half  covered  with  low 
furze,  whose  golden  blossoms  reflect  so  intensely  the  last  beams  of  the 
setting  sun,. and  alive  with  cows  and  sheep,  and  two  sets  of  cricketers: 
one  of  young  men,  surrounded  with  spectators — some  standing,  some 
stretched  on  the  grass,  all  taking  a  delightful  interest  in  the  game  :  the 
other  a  group  of  little  boys  at  an  humble  distance,  for  whom  even  cricket 
is  scarcely  lively  enough,  shouting,  leaping,  and  enjoying  themselves  to 

their  hearts'  content. 

MARY  E.  MITFORD. 

LINES 

TO   A  BEAUTIFUL   SPRING   IN   A   VII.I.AUK. 

Once  more,  sweet  stream  !  with  slow  foot  wandering  near, 
I  bless  thy  milky  waters  cold  and  clear. 
Escaped  the  flashing  of  the  noontide  hours, 
With  one  fresh  garland  of  Pierian  flowers 


320  THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS. 

(Ere  from  thy  zephyr -haunted  brink  I  turn), 
My  languid  head  shall  wreathe  thy  mossy  urn. 
For  not  through  pathless  grove,  with  murmur  rude, 
Thou  soothest  the  sad  wood-nymph  Solitude ; 
Nor  thine  unseen  in  cavern  depths  to  well, 
The  hermit-fountain  of  some  dripping  cell ! 
Pride  of  the  vale !  thy  useful  streams  supply 
The  scattered  cots  and  peaceful  hamlet  nigh ; 
The  elfin  tribe  around  thy  friendly  banks, 
With  infant  uproar  and  soul-soothing  pranks, 
Released  from  school,  their  little  hearts  at  rest, 
Launch  paper  navies  on  thy  waveless  breast. 
The  rustic  here  at  eve,  with  pensive  look, 
Whistling  lorn  ditties,  leans  upon  his  crook ; 
Or  starting,  passes  with  hope-mingled  dread 
To  list  the  much-lov'd  maid's  accustom'd  tread ; 
She,  vainly  mindful  of  her  dame's  command, 
Loiters,  the  long-fill'd  pitcher  in  her  hand. 
Unboasted  stream  !  thy  fount  with  pebbled  falls 
The  faded  form  of  past  delight  recalls, 
What  time  the  morning  sun  of  Hope  arose, 
And  all  was  joy  ;  save  when  another's  woes 
A  transient  gloom  upon  my  soul  imprest, 
Like  passing  cloud  impictur'd  on  thy  breast. 
Life's  current  then  ran  sparkling  to  the  noon, 
Or  silv'ry  stole  beneath  the  pensive  moon. 
Ah  !  now  it  works  rude  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Or  o'er  the  rough  rock  bursts  and  foams  along ! 

SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLBRIDGB. 


LINES 

FROM   "  INDEPENDENCE." 

Nature  I'll  court  in  her  sequestered  haunts, 

By  mountain,  meadow,  streamlet,  grove,  or  cell, 
Where  the  pois'd  lark  his  evening  ditty  chants, 

And  Health,  and  Peace,  and  Contemplation  dwell. 
Where  Study  shall  with  Solitude  recline ; 

And  Friendship  pledge  me  with  his  fellow-swains  ; 
And  Toil  and  Temperance  sedately  twine 

The  slender  cord  that  fluttering  life  sustains, 
And  fearless  Poverty  shall  guard  the  door  ; 

And  Taste  unspoil'd  the  frugal  table  spread, 
And  Industry  supply  the  humble  store ; 


THE      SCHOOLMISTRESS.  321 

And  Sleep  unbrib'd  his  dews  refreshing  shed  ; 
White-mantled  Innocence,  ethereal  sprite, 
Shall  chase  far  off  the  goblins  of  the  night ; 
And  Independence  o'er  the  day  preside, 
Propitious  power  !  my  patron  and  my  pride  ! 

TOBIAS  SMOLLETT,  1721-1771. 
14* 


XX. 


A  UTUMN  is  a  favorite  season  with  American  poets  ;  they 
-£*-  have  taken  great  delight  in  singing  the  high-toned  mag- 
nificence of  the  season,  as  well  as  that  delicacy  and  sweet- 
ness of  aspect  which  so  often  adds  an  exquisite  charm  to  the 
brilliancy  of  autumnal  beauty  under  our  native  skies.  The 
poets  of  Europe  have  scarcely  sung  the  delights  of  Spring 
with  more  eloquent  fervor.  We  can  not  wonder  that  such 
should  be  the  case  ;  from  the  first  tinge  of  peculiar  coloring 
to  the  last  smile  of  the  Indian  Summer,  the  season  is  full  of 
interest  and  beauty,  of  ever-varying  aspects.  It  has  been 
with  real  reluctance  that  we  have  been  compelled  to  turn 
aside  from  many  beautiful  passages  of  American  verse  which 
we  had  originally  hoped  to  have  inserted  in  this  division  of 
the  volume  ;  but  fortunately  they  lie  already  within  every 
reader's  reach,  in  other  forms. 


AUTUMN.  323 


TO  AUTUMN  NEAR  HER  DEPARTURE. 

Thou  maid  of  gentle  light !  thy  straw- wove  vest, 
And  russet  cincture ;  thy  loose  pale-tinged  hair ; 
Thy  melancholy  voice  and  languid  air, 

As  if  shut  up  within  that  pensive  breast, 

Some  ne'er-to-be-divulged  grief  was  prest ; 

Thy  looks  resign'd,  that  smiles  of  patience  wear, 
While  Winter's  blasts  thy  scattered  tresses  tear  ; 

Thee,  Autumn,  with  divinest  charms  have  blest 

Let  blooming  Spring  with  gaudy  hopes  delight, 
That  dazzling  Summer  shall  of  her  be  born ; 

Let  Summer  blaze,  and  Winter's  stormy  train 

Breathe  awful  music  in  the  ear  of  night ; 
Thee  will  I  court,  sweet  dying  maid  forlorn, 

And  from  thy  glance  will  catch  th'  inspired  strain. 

SIR  EGERTOX  BRIDGES,  1762-1887. 


AUTUMN. 

ODE. 
I. 

I  saw  old  Autumn  in  the  misty  morn 
Stand  shadowless  like  Silence,  listening 
To  Silence,  for  no  lonely  bird  would  sing 
Into  his  hollow  ear  from  woods  forlorn, 
Nor  lowly  hedge  nor  solitary  thorn ; 
Shaking  his  languid  locks,  all  dewy  bright, 
With  tangled  gossamer  that  fell  by  night, 
Pearling  his  coronet  of  golden  corn. 


Where  are  the  songs  of  Summer  ?     With  the  sun, 
Oping  the  dusky  eyelids  of  the  South, 
'Till  shade  and  silence  waken  up  as  one, 
And  Morning  sings  with  a  warm,  odorous  mouth. 
Where  are  the  merry  birds  ? — away,  away, 
On  panting  wings,  through  the  inclement  skies, 

Lest  owls  should  prey, 

Undazzled  at  noon-day, 
And  tear  with  horny  beak  their  lustrous  eyes. 


324  AUTUMN 


Where  are  the  blooms  of  Summer  ?    In  the  West, 
Blushing  their  last  to  the  last  sunny  hours, 
When  the  mild  Eve  by  sudden  Night  is  prest, 
Like  tearful  Proserpine,  snatch'd  from  her  flow'rs. 

To  a  most  gloomy  breast. 

Where  is  the  pride  of  Summer — the  green  prime — 
The  merry,  merry  leaves  all  twinkling  ? — there 
On  the  moss'd  elm ;  there  on  the  naked  lime 
Trembling — and  one  upon  the  old  oak-tree  ! 

Where  is  the  Dryad's  immortality  ? 
Gone  into  mournful  cypress  and  dark  yew, 
Or  wearing  the  long,  gloomy  Winter  through 

In  the  smooth  holly's  green  eternity. 


The  squirrel  gloats  on  his  accomplish'd  hoard  ; 

The  ants  have  cramm'd  their  garners  with  ripe  grain, 

And  honey-bees  have  stored 
The  sweets  of  Summer  in  their  luscious  cells ; 
The  swallows  all  have  winged  across  the  main ; 
But  here  the  Autumn  melancholy  dwells, 

And  sighs  her  tearful  spells 
Among  the  sunless  shadows  of  the  plain  : 

Alone,  alone, 

Upon  a  mossy  stone, 

She  sits  and  reckons  up  the  dead  and  gone 
With  the  last  leaves  for  a  lone-rosary, 
While  all  the  wither'd  world  looks  drearily, 
Like  a  dim  picture  of  the  drowned  past 
In  the  hush'd  mind's  mysterious  far  away, 
Doubtful  what  ghostly  thing  will  steal  the  last 
Into  the  distance,  gray  upon  the  gray. 


0  go  and  sit  with  her,  and  be  o'ershaded 
Under  the  languid  downfall  of  her  hair ; 
She  wears  a  coronal  of  flowers  faded 
Upon  her  forehead,  and  a  face  of  care; 
There  is  enough  of  withered  everywhere 
To  make  her  bower,  and  enough  of  gloom , 
There  is  enough  of  sadness  to  invite, 
If  only  for  the  rose  that  died,  whose  doom 
Is  Beauty's— she  that  with  the  living  bloom 


AUTUMN.  325 

Of  conscious  cheeks  most  beautifies  the  light. 
There  is  enough  of  sorrowing,  and  quite 
Enough  of  bitter  fruits  the 'earth  doth  bear — 
Enough  of  chilly  droppings  from  her  brow — 
Enough  of  fear  and  shadowy  despair 
To  frame  her  cloudy  prison  for  the  soul ! 

THOMAS  HOOD. 


ODE 

TO     WILLIAM     LYTTLETON,    ESQ., 

TOWARD   THK   CLOSK   OF  THE  TKAB  1748. 

How  blithely  passed  the  pummer's  day  ! 

How  bright  was  every  flower ! 
While  friends  arrived  in  circles  gay 

To  visit  Damon's  bower ! 

But  now  with  silent  step  I  range 

Along  some  lonely  shore ; 
And  Damon's  bower  (alas  the  change  !) 

Is  gay  with  friends  no  more. 

Away  to  crowds  and  cities  borne, 

In  quest  of  joy  they  steer ; 
While  I,  alas,  am  left  forlorn 

To  weep  the  parting  year  ! 

0  pensive  Autumn,  how  I  grieve 

Thy  sorrowing  face  to  see ! 
When  languid  suns  are  taking  leave 

Of  every  drooping  tree. 

Ah  !  let  me  not  with  heavy  eye 

This  dying  scene  survey ! 
Haste,  Winter,  haste  ;  usurp  the  sky ; 

Complete  my  bower's  decay  ! 

Ill  can  I  bear  the  motley  cast 
Yon  sickening  leaves  retain, 

That  speak  at  once  of  pleasure  past, 
And  bode  approaching  pain. 

Ah,  home  unblessed  !  I  gaze  around, 
My  distant  scenes  require, 


326  AUTUMN. 

Where,  all  in  murky  vapors  drown'd, 
Are  hamlet,  hill,  and  spire. 

Though  Thomson,  sweet,  descriptive  bard  ! 

Inspiring  Autumn  sung ; 
Yet  how  should  he  the  months  regard, 

That  stopp'd  his  flowing  tongue  ? 

Ah,  luckless  months,  of  all  the  rest, 
To  whose  hard  share  it  fell ! 

For  sure  his  was  the  gentlest  breast 
That  ever  sung  so  well. 

And  see,  the  swallows  now  disown 
The  roofs  they  loved  before  ; 

Each,  like  his  tuneful  genius,  flown 
To  glad  some  happier  shore. 

The  wood-nymph  eyes  with  pale  affright 
The  sportsman's  frantic  deed, 

While  hounds,  and  horns,  and  yells  unite 
To  drown  the  Muse's  reed. 

Ye  fields !  with  blighted  herbage  brown ; 

Ye  skies  !  no  longer  blue ; 
Too  much  we  feel  from  Fortune's  frown, 

To  bear  these  frowns  from  you. 

Where  is  the  mead's  unsullied  green  ? 

The  zephyr's  balmy  gale  ? 
And  where  sweet  Friendship's  cordial  mien 

That  brighten'd  every  vale  ? 

What  though  the  vine  disclose  her  dyes, 
And  boast  her  purple  store, 

Not  all  the  vineyard's  rich  supplies 
Can  soothe  our  sorrows  more. 

He  !  he  is  gone,  whose  moral  strain 
Could  wit  and  mirth  refine  ; 

He  !  he  is  gone,  whose  social  vein 
Surpass'd  the  power  of  wine. 

Fast  by  the  streams  he  deign'd  to  praise, 

In  yon  sequester'd  grove, 
To  him  a  votive  urn  I  raise, 

To  him  and  friendly  love. 


AUTUMN.  327 

Yes,  there,  my  friend  !  forlorn  and  sad, 

I  'grave  your  Thomson's  name ; 
And  there  his  lyre,  which  Fate  forbad 

To  sound  your  growing  fame. 

There  shall  my  plaintive  song  recount 

Dark  themes  of  hopeless  woe  ; 
And  faster  than  the  drooping  fount, 

I'll  teach  mine  eyes  to  flow. 

There  leaves,  in  spite  of  Autumn,  green 

Shall  shade  the  hallow'd  ground ; 
And  Spring  will  there  again  be  seen, 

To  call  forth  flowers  around. 

But  no  kind  suns  will  bid  me  share 

Once  more  his  social  hour  ; 
Ah,  Spring  !  thou  never  can'st  repair 

His  loss  to  Damon's  bower. 

WILLIAM  SHENSTONE,  1714-1T63. 


SONG. 


Tell  me  where's  the  violet  fled, 

Late  so  gayly  blowing ; 
Springing  'neath  fair  Flora's  tread, 

Choicest  sweets  bestowing  ? 
Swain,  the  vernal  scene  is  o'er 
And  the  violet  blooms  no  more  ! 

Say,  where  hides  the  blushing  rose, 
Pride  of  fragrant  morning ; 

Garland  meet  for  beauty's  brow, 
Hill  and  dale  adorning  ? 

Gentle  maid,  the  summer's  fled, 

And  the  hapless  rose  is  dead ! 

Bear  me  then  to  yonder  rill, 

Late  so  freely  flowing, 
Watering  many  a  daffodil 

On  its  margin  glowing ; 
Sun  and  wind  exhaust  its  store ; 
Yonder  rivulet  glides  no  more ! 


328  AUTUMN. 

Lead  me  to  the  bowery  shade, 

Late  with  roses  flaunting  ; 
Loved  resort  of  youth  and  maid, 

Amorous  ditties  chaunting ; 
Hail  and  storm  with  fury  shower. 
Leafless  mourns  the  rifled  bower  ! 

Say,  where  bides  the  village  maid, 

Late  yon  cot  adorning  ? 
Oft  I've  met  her  in  the  glade, 

Fair  and  fresh  as  morning. 
Swain,  how  short  is  beauty's  bloom  ! 
Seek  her  in  the  grassy  tomb  ! 

Whither  roves  the  tuneful  swain, 

Who  of  rural  pleasures, 
Rose  and  violet,  rill  and  plain, 

Sung  in  dulcet  measures  ? 
Maiden,  swift  life's  vision  flies, 
Death  has  closed  the  poet's  eyes ! 
Translation  of  BERESFORD.  JOHAN  GEORG.  JACOBI,  1740-1814. 


AUTUMN    SCENE    IN    ENGLAND. 

But  see  the  fading,  many-color'd  woods, 

Shade  deepening  over  shade  the  country  round 

Imbrown ;  a  crowded  umbrage,  dusk  and  dun, 

Of  every  hue,  from  wan  declining  green 

To  sooty  dark — these  now  the  lonesome  Muse, 

Low  whispering,  lead  into  their  leaf-strewn  walks, 

And  give  the  season  in  its  latest  view. 

Meantime,  light-shadowing  all,  a  sober  calm 
Fleeces  unbounded  ether,  whose  least  wave 
Stands  tremulous,  uncertain  where  to  turn 
The  gentle  current ;  while  illumin'd  wide, 
The  dewy-skirted  clouds  imbibe  the  sun, 
And  through  their  lucid  vail  his  softened  force 
Shed  o'er  the  peaceful  world.     Then  is  the  time 
For  those  whom  wisdom  and  whom  Nature  charm, 
To  steal  themselves  from  the  degenerate  crowd, 
And  soar  above  this  little  scene  of  things ; 
To  tread  low-thoughted  vice  beneath  their  feet ; 
To  soothe  the  throbbing  passions  into  peace, 
And  woo  lone  Quiet  in  her  silent  walks. 


AUTUMN.  329 


The  pale  descending  year,  yet  pleasing  still, 
A  gentler  mood  inspires ;  for  now  the  leaf 
Incessant  rustles  from  the  mournful  grove ; 
Oft  startling  such  as  studious  walk  below, 
And  slowly  circles  through  the  waving  air. 
But  should  a  quicker  breeze  amid  the  boughs 
Sob,  o'er  the  sky  the  leafy  deluge  streams  ; 
Till  choked  and  matted  with  the  dreary  shower, 
The  forest- walks,  at  every  rising  gale, 
Roll  wide  the  wither'd  waste,  and  whistle  bleak. 
Fled  is  the  blasted  verdure  of  the  fields, 
And,  shrunk  into  their  beds,  the  flowery  race 
Their  sunny  robes  resign.     Even  what  remained 
Of  stronger  fruits,  falls  from  the  naked  tree, 
And  woods,  fields,  gardens,  orchards,  all  around 
The  desolated  prospect  thrills  the  soul. 

JAMBS  THOMSON,  1700-1743 


INDIAN    SUMMER. 

It  is  the  season  when  the  light  of  dreams 

Around  the  year  in  golden  glory  lies — 

The  heavens  are  full  of  floating  mysteries, 
And  in  the  lake  the  vailed  splendor  gleams ! 

Like  hidden  poets  lie  the  hazy  streams, 
Mantled  with  mysteries  of  their  own  romance, 
While  scarce  a  breath  disturbs  their  drowsy  trance. 

The  yellow  leaf  which  down  the  soft  air  gleams, 
Glides,  wavers,  falls,  and  skims  the  unruffled  lake. 

There  the  frail  maples,  and  the  faithful  firs 
By  twisted  vines  are  wed.     The  russet  brake 

Skirts  the  low  pool,  and  starred  with  open  burrs 

The  chestnut  stands ;  but  when  the  north-wind  stirs, 
How  like  an  armed  host  the  summoned  scene  shall  wake  ! 

T.  B,  READ. 


AN    AUTUMN    LANDSCAPE. 

Far  and  wide 

Nature  is  smiling  in  her  loveliness. 
Mil  MOB  of  wood,  green  strips  of  fields,  ravines 
Shown  by  their  outlines  drawn  against  the  hills, 


330  AUTUMN 

Chimneys  and  roofs,  trees,  single  and  in  groups, 

Bright  curves  of  brooks,  and  vanishing  mountain-top 

Expand  upon  my  sight,     October's  brush 

The  scene  has  color'd ;  not  with  those  broad  hues 

Mix'd  in  his  later  pallet  by  the  frost, 

And  dash'd  upon  the  picture  till  the  eye 

Aches  with  varied  splendor,  but  in  tints 

Left  by  light,  scatter'd  touches.     Overhead 

There  is  a  blending  of  cloud,  haze,  and  sky, 

A  silvery  sheet  with  spaces  of  soft  blue ; 

A  trembling  vail  of  gauze  is  stretch'd  athwart 

The  shadowy  hill-sides  and  dark  forest-flanks  ; 

A  soothing  quiet  broods  upon  the  air, 

And  the  faint  sunshine  winks  with  drowsiness. 

Far  sounds  melt  mellow  on  the  ear  :  the  bark — 

The  bleat— the  tinkle— whistle — blast  of  horn- 

The  rattle  of  the  wagon- wheel — the  low — 

The  fowler's  shot — the  twitter  of  the  bird, 

And  e'en  the  hum  of  converse  from  the  road. 

The  grass,  with  its  low  insect-tones,  appears 

As  murmuring  in  its  sleep.     This  butterfly 

Seems  as  if  loth  to  stir,  so  lazily 

It  flutters  by.     In  fitful  starts,  and  stops, 

The  locust  sings.     The  grasshopper  breaks  out 

In  brief,  harsh  strains,  amid  its  pausing  chirps. 

The  beetle,  glistening  in  its  sable  mail, 

Slow  climbs  the  clover-tops,  and  e'en  the  ant 

Darts  round  less  eagerly. 

****** 

ALFRED  STREET. 


AUTUMN    WOODS. 

Ere,  in  the  northern  gale, 
The  summer  tresses  of  the  trees  are  gone, 
The  woods  of  Autumn  all  around  our  vale, 

Have  put  their  glory  on. 

The  mountains  that  enfold 

In  their  wide  sweep  the  colored  landscape  round, 
Seem  groups  of  giant  kings,  in  purple  and  gold, 

That  guard  the  enchanted  ground. 


AUTUMN.  331 

I  roam  the  woods  that  crown 
The  upland,  where  the  mingled  splendors  glow — 
Where  the  gay  company  of  trees  look  down 

On  the  green  fields  below. 

My  steps  are  not  alone 

In  these  bright  walks ;  the  sweet  southwest,  at  play, 
Flies,  rustling,  where  the  painted  leaves  are  strewn 

Along  the  winding  way. 

And  far  in  heaven,  the  while, 
The  sun  that  sends  that  gale  to  wander  here, 
Pours  out  on  the  fair  earth  his  quiet  smile, 

The  sweetest  of  the  year. 

Where  now  the  solemn  shade, 
Verdure  and  gloom,  where  many  branches  meet ; 
So  grateful  when  the  noon  of  summer  made 

The  valleys  rich  with  heat  ? 

Let  in  through  all  the  trees 

Come  the  strange  rays ;  the  forest  depths  are  bright ! 
Their  sunny-colored  foliage  in  the  breeze 

Twinkles,  like  beams  of  light. 

The  rivulet,  late  unseen, 

Where,  bickering  through  the  shrubs,  its  waters  run, 
Shines  with  the  image  of  its  golden  screen, 

And  glimmerings  of  the  sun. 

Beneath  yon  crimson  tree, 
Lover  to  listening  maid  might  breathe  his  flame, 
Nor  mark  within  its  roseate  canopy 

Her  blush  of  maiden  shame. 

Oh,  Autumn,  why  so  soon 
Depart  the  hues  that  make  thy  forests  glad. 
Thy  gentle  wind,  and  thy  fair  sunny  noon, 

And  leave  thee  wild  and  sad ! 

Ah !  twere  a  lot  too  bless'd 
Forever  in  thy  colored  shades  to  stray ; 
Amid  the  tresses  of  the  soft  southwest, 

To  rove  and  dream  for  aye ; 


332  AUTUMN. 

And  leave  the  vain,  low  strife 

That  makes  men  mad — the  tug  for  wealth  and  power, 
The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 

And  waste  its  little  hour. 

WILLIAM  C.  BBYANT. 


XXI. 


A    WISH. 

MINE  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill, 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear, 
A  willowy  brook  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 

The  swallow  oft,  beneath  my  thatch, 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  ; 
And  Lucy  at  her  wheel  shall  sing, 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village -church  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  giv'n, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heav'n. 

SAMUEL  ROGERS. 


334  MEDLEY. 


A     COUNTRY    LIFE. 

FKOM   THE    LATIN   OF   AVIENUS,    A.D.-380. 

Safe-roof  d  my  cottage ;  swelling  rich  with  wine 
Hangs  from  the  twisted  elm  my  cluster'd  vine. 
Boughs  glow  with  cherries,  apples  bend  my  wood  ; 
And  the  crush'd  olive  foams  with  juicy  flood. 
Where  my  light  beds  the  scattering  rivulet  drink, 
My  simple  pot-herbs  flourish  on  the  brink ; 
And  poppies  smiling  wave  the  rosy  head, 
That  yield  no  opiate  to  a  restless  bed. 
If  for  the  birds  I  weave  the  limed  snare, 
Or  for  the  startlish  deer  the  net  prepare, 
Or  with  a  slender  thread  the  fish  delude, 
No  other  wiles  disturb  these  woodlands  rude. 
Go  now,  and  barter  life's  calm  stealing  days 
For  pompous  suppers,  that  with  luxury  blaze  ! 
Pray  Heaven  !  for  me  the  lot  may  thus  be  cast, 
And  future  time  glide  peaceful  as  the  past. 

Translation  of  SIB  C.  A.  ELTON. 


OF    BUILDING. 

COUNTRY  HOUSES. 

He  that  alters  an  old  house  is  tied  as  a  translator  to  the  original, 
and  is  confined  to  the  fancy  of  the  first  builder.  Such  a  man  were  un- 
wise to  pluck  down  good  old  buildings,  to  erect,  perchance,  worse  new. 
But  those  that  raze  a  new  house  from  the  ground  are  blameworthy  if 
they  make  it  not  handsome,  seeing,  to  them,  method  and  confusion  are 
both  at  a  rate.  In  building,  we  must  respect  situation,  contrivance,  re- 
ceipt, strength,  and  beauty.  Of  situation : 

Chiefly  choose  a  wholesome  air.  For  air  is  a  dish  one  feeds  on  every 
minute,  and  therefore  it  need  be  good.  Wherefore  great  men  (who  may 
build  where  they  please,  as  poor  men  where  they  can),  if  herein  they 
prefer  their  profit  above  their  health,  I  refer  them  to  their  physicians 
to  make  them  pay  for  it  accordingly. 

Wood  and  water  are  two  staple  commodities,  where  they  may  be  had. 
The  former,  I  confess,  hath  made  so  much  iron,  that  it  must  now  be 
bought  with  the  more  silver,  and  grows  daily  dearer.  But  it  is  as  well 
pleasant  as  profitable  to  see  a  house  cased  with  trees,  like  that  of  An- 
chises,  in  Troy, 

" quanqnam  secrcta  parentis 

Anchisse  domua  arboribusque  obtecta  recessit." 


MEDLEY.  335 

The  worst  is,  where  a  place  is  bald  of  wood,  no  art  can  make  it  a  peri- 
wig. As  for  water,  begin  with  Pindar's  beginning,  "  upi^ov  fiei)  vdup" 
The  fort  of  Gogmagog  Hill,  nigh  Cambridge,  is  counted  impregnable, 
but  for  water ;  the  mischief  of  many  houses,  where  the  servants  must 
bring  the  water  on  their  shoulders. 

Next,  a  pleasant  prospect  is  to  be  respected.  A  medley  view  (such  as 
of  water  and  land  at  Greenwich)  best  entertains  the  eye,  refreshing  the 
wearied  beholder  with  exchange  of  objects.  Yet  I  know  a  more  profit- 
able prospect,  where  the  owner  can  only  see  his  own  land  round  about. 

A  fair  entrance,  with  an  easy  ascent,  gives  a  great  grace  to  a  build- 
ing, where  the  hall  is  a  preferment  out  of  the  court,  the  parlor  out  of 
the  hall ;  not  (as  in  some  old  buildings)  where  the  doors  are  so  low, 
pigmies  must  stoop,  and  the  rooms  so  high  that  giants  may  stand  up- 
right. But  now  we  are  come  to  the  contrivance  : 

Let  not  thy  common  rooms  be  several,  nor  thy  several  rooms  be  com- 
mon. The  hall  (which  is  a  pandocheum)  ought  to  lie  open,  and  so  ought 
passages  and  stairs  (provided  that  the  whole  house  be  not  spent  in  paths) ; 
chambers  and  closets  are  to  be  private  and  retired. 

Light  (God's  eldest  daughter)  is  a  principal  beauty  in  a  building ;  yet 
it  shines  not  alike  from  all  parts  of  heaven.  An  east  window  welcomes 
the  infant  beams  of  the  sun  before  they  are  of  strength  to  do  any  harm, 
and  is  offensive  to  none  but  a  sluggard.  A  south  window  in  summer  is 
a  chimney  with  a  fire  in  it,  and  needs  the  screen  of  a  curtain.  In  a  west 
window  in  summer  time,  toward  night,  the  sun  grows  low  and  over-fa- 
miliar, with  more  light  than  delight.  A  north  window  is  best  for  but- 
teries and  cellars,  where  the  beer  will  be  sour  for  the  sun's  smiling  on 
it.  Thorough -lights  are  best  for  rooms  of  entertainment,  and  windows 
on  one  side  for  dormitories.  As  for  receipt : 

A  house  had  better  be  too  little  for  a  day  than  too  great  for  a  year. 
And  it  is  easier  borrowing  of  thy  neighbor  a  brace  of  chambers  for  a 
night,  than  a  bag  of  money  for  a  twelvemonth.  It  is  vain,  therefore,  to 
proportion  the  receipt  to  an  extraordinary  occasion,  as  those  who,  by 
over-building  their  houses  have  dilapidated  their  lands,  and  their  estates 
have  been  pressed  to  death  under  the  weight  of  their  house.  As  for 
strength  : 

Country  houses  must  be  substantives,  able  to  stand  of  themselves; 
not  like  city  buildings,  supported  by  their  neighbors  on  either  side.  By 
strength  we  mean  such  as  may  resist  weather  and  time,  not  invasion — 
castles  being  out  of  date  in  this  peaceable  age.  As  for  the  making  of 
moats  round  about,  it  is  questionable  whether  the  fogs  be  not  more  un- 
healthful  than  the  fish  bring  profit,  or  the  water  defense.  Beauty  re- 
mains behind,  as  the  last  to  be  regarded,  because  houses  are  made  to  be 
lived  in,  not  looked  on. 

Let  not  the  front  look  asquint  on  a  stranger,  but  accost  him  right  at 
his  entrance.  Uniformity,  also,  much  pleaseth  the  eye ;  andWt  is  ob- 


336  MEDLEY. 

served  that  freestone,  like  a  fair  complexion,  soonest  waxeth  old,  while 
brick  keeps  her  beauty  longest. 

Let  the  office-houses  observe  the  due  distance  from  the  mansion-house. 
Those  are  too  familiar  which  presume  to  be  of  the  same  pile  with  it. 
The  same  may  be  said  of  stables  and  barns ;  without  which  a  house  is 
like  a  city  without  outworks,  it  can  never  hold  out  long. 

Gardens,  also,  are  to  attend  in  their  place.  When  God  (Genesis  ii.  9) 
planted  a  garden  eastward,  He  made  to  grow  out  of  the  ground  every 
tree  pleasant  to  the  sight,  and  good  for  food.  Sure  He  knew  better  what 
was  proper  to  a  garden  than  those,  who,  now-a-days,  therein  only  feed 
the  eyes,  and  starve  both  taste  and  smell. 

To  conclude.  In  building,  rather  believe  any  man  than  an  artificer 
in  his  own  art  for  matter  of  charges ;  not  that  they  can  not,  but  will 
not,  be  faithful.  Should  they  tell  thee  all  the  cost  at  the  first,  it  would 
blast  a  young  builder  in  the  budding,  and  therefore  they  sooth  thee  up 
till  it  hath  cost  thee  something  to  confute  them.  The  spirit  of  building 
first  possessed  people  after  the  flood,  which  then  caused  the  confusion  of 
languages,  and  since,  the  estate  of  many  a  man. 

THOMAS  FULLER,  "Holy  and  Profane  States,"  1608-1661. 


OF    BUILDING. 

Houses  are  built  to  live  in,  and  not  to  look  on ;  therefore  let  use  be 
preferred  before  uniformity,  except  where  both  may  be  had.  Leave  the 
goodly  fabrics  of  houses,  for  beauty  only,  to  the  enchanted  palaces  of  the 
poets,  who  build  them  with  small  cost.  He  that  buildeth  a  fair  house 
upon  an  ill  seat,  committeth  himself  to  prison ;  neither  do  I  reckon  it  an 
ill  seat  only  where  the  air  is  unwholesome,  but  likewise  where  the  air  is 
unequal ;  as  you  shall  see  many  fine  seats  set  upon  a  knap  of  ground, 
environed  with  higher  hills  round  about  it,  whereby  the  heat  of  the  sun 
is  pent  in,  and  the  wind  gathereth  as  in  troughs  ;  so  as  you  shall  have, 
and  that  suddenly,  as  great  diversity  of  heat  and  cold  as  if  you  dwelt 
in  several  places.  Neither  is  it  ill  air  only  that  maketh  an  ill  seat,  but 
ill  ways,  ill  markets;  and  if  you  will  consult  with  Momus,  ill  neighbors. 
I  speak  not  of  many  more ;  want  of  water,  want  of  wood,  shade,  and 
shelter,  want  of  fruitfulness,  and  mixture  of  grounds  of  several  natures ; 
want  of  prospect,  want  of  level  grounds,  want  of  places  at  some  near 
distance  for  sports  of  hunting,  hawking,  and  races ;  too  near  the  sea,  or 
too  remote ;  having  the  commodity  of  navigable  rivers,  or  the  discom- 
modity of  their  overflowing ;  too  far  from  great  cities,  which  may  hinder 
business ;  or  too  near  them,  which  lurcheth  all  provisions,  and  maketh 
every  thing  dear ;  where  a  man  hath  a  great  living  laid  together  and 
where  he  is  scanted ;  all  which,  as  it  is  impossible  perhaps  to  find  to- 
gether, so  it  is  good  to  know  them,  and  think  of  them,  that  a  man  may 


MEDLEY.  337 

like  as  many  as  he  can ;  and,  if  he  have  several  dwellings,  that  he  sod 
them  so,  that  what  he  wanteth  in  one  he  may  find  in  another.  Lucullus 
answered  Pompey  well,  who,  when  he  saw  his  stately  galleries,  and  rooms 
so  large  and  lightsome,  in  one  of  his  houses,  said,  "  Surely  an  excellent 
place  for  summer,  but  how  do  you  in  winter  ?"  Lucullus  answered, 
•'Why  do  you  not  think  me  as  wise  as  some  fowls,  that  ever  change 
their  abode  toward  the  winter  ?" 

LORD  BACON,  1561-1627. 


THE    WISH. 

Well,  then,  I  now  do  plainly  see 

This  busy  world  and  I  shall  ne'er  agree — 
The  very  honey  of  all  earthly  joy 

Does  of  all  meats  the  soonest  cloy ; 

And  they,  methinks,  deserve  my  pity, 
Who  for  it  can  endure  the  stings, 
The  crowd,  the  buzz,  and  murmurings, 

Of  this  great  hive,  the  city. 

Ah,  yet,  ere  I  descend  to  th'  grave, 
May  I  a  small  house  and  large  garden  have  ! 
And  a  few  friends,  and  many  books,  both  true, 

Both  wise,  and  both  delightful  too  ! 

And,  since  love  ne'er  will  from  me  flee, 
A  mistress  moderately  fair, 
And  good  as  guardian  angels  are, 

Only  beloved,  and  loving  me  ! 

Oh  fountains  !  when  in  you  shall  I 
Myself,  eased  of  unpeaceful  thoughts,  espy  ? 
Oh  fields  !  oh  woods  !  when,  when  shall  I  be  made 

The  happy  tenant  of  your  shades  ? 

Here's  the  spring-head  of  Pleasure's  flood ; 
Where  all  the  riches  lie,  that  she 

Has  coin'd  and  stamp'd  for  good. 

Pride  and  ambition  here 
Only  in  far-fetch'd  metaphors  appear  ; 
Here  naught  but  winds  can  hurtful  murmurs  Matter, 

And  naught  but  Echo  flatter. 

The  gods,  when  they  descended,  hither 
From  heaven  did  always  choose  their  way, 
Ami  therefore  we  may  boldly  say, 

That  'tis  the  way,  too,  thither. 
16 


338  MEDLEY. 

How  happy  here  should  I 
And  one  dear  she,  live,  and  embracing  die  ! 
She  who  is  all  the  world,  and  can  exclude 

In  deserts  solitude. 

I  should  have  then  this  only  fear — 
Lest  men,  when  they  my  pleasures  see, 
Should  hither  throng  to  live  like  me 

And  so  make  a  city  here. 

ABRAHAM  COWLEY,  1618-1651 


A    THANKSGIVING    FOR    HIS    HOUSE. 

Lord,  thou  hast  given  me  a  cell 

Wherein  to  dwell ; 
A  little  house,  whose  humble  roof 

Is  weather-proof; 
Under  the  spars  of  which  I  lie 

Both  soft  and  dry. 
Where  Thou,  my  chamber  for  to  ward, 

Hast  set  a  guard, 
Of  harmless  thoughts,  to  watch  and  keep 

Me  while  I  sleep. 
Low  is  my  porch,  as  is  my  fate, 

Both  void  of  state  ; 
And  yet  the  threshold  of  my  door 

Is  worn  by  the  poor, 
Who  hither  come,  and  freely  get 

Good  words  or  meat. 
Like  as  my  parlor,  so  my  hall, 

And  kitchen  small ; 
A  little  buttery,  and  therein 

A  little  bin, 
Which  keeps  my  little  loaf  of  bread, 

Unchipt,  unflead. 
Some  brittle  sticks  of  thorn  or  brier 

Make  me  a  fire, 
Close  by  whose  living  coal  I  sit, 

And  glow  like  it. 
Lord,  I  confess,  too,  when  I  dine, 

The  pulse  is  Thine, 
And  all  those  other  bits  that  be 

There  placed  by  Thee  ; 
The  worts,  the  purslane,  and  the  mess 

Of  water-cress, 


MEDLEY.  339 

Which  of  Thy  kindness  Thou  has  sent ; 

And  my  content 
Makes  these  and  my  beloved  beet 

To  be  more  sweet. 
'Tis  Thou  that  crown'st  my  glittering  hearth 

With  guiltless  mirth, 
And  giv'st  me  wassail  bowls  to  drink, 

Spiced  to  the  brink. 
Lord,  'tis  thy  plenty -dropping  hand 

That  sows  my  land. 
All  this,  and  better  dost  Thou  send 

Me  for  this  end — 
That  I  should  render  for  my  part 

A  thankful  heart, 
Which,  fir'd  with  incense,  I  resign 

As  wholly  Thine ; 
But  the  acceptance,  that  must  be, 

0  Lord,  of  Thee ! 

EGBERT  HEBRICK. 


THE    STRANGER    ON    THE    SILL. 

Between  broad  fields  of  wheat  and  corn 
Is  the  lowly  home  where  I  was  born  ; 
The  peach-tree  leans  against  the  wall, 
And  the  woodbine  wanders  over  all ; 
There  is  the  shaded  doorway  still — 
But  a  stranger's  foot  has  crossed  the  sill. 

There  is  the  barn — and,  as  of  yore, 

I  can  smell  the  hay  from  the  open  door, 

And  see  the  busy  swallows  throng, 

And  hear  the  peewee's  mournful  song ; 

But  the  stranger  conies — oh  !  painful  proof — 

His  sheaves  are  piled  to  the  heated  roof. 

There  is  the  orchard — the  very  trees 

Where  my  childhood  knew  long  hours  of  ease, 

And  watched  the  shadowy  moments  run, 

Till  my  life  imbibed  more  shade  than  sun  ; 

The  swing  from  the  bough  still  sweeps  the  air — 

But  the  stranger's  children  are  swinging  there. 

He  bubbles,  the  shady  spring  below, 

With  its  bulrush  brook  where  the  hazels  grow ; 


340  MEDLEY. 

'Twas  there  I  found  the  calamus  root, 
And  watched  the  minnows  poise  and  shoot, 
And  heard. the  robin  lave  his  wing — 
But  the  stranger's  bucket  is  at  the  spring. 

Oh  ye  who  daily  cross  the  sill, 

Step  lightly,  for  I  love  it  still ; 

And  when  you  crowd  the  old  barn  eaves, 

Then  think  what  countless  harvest  sheaves 

Have  passed  within  that  scented  door, 

To  gladden  eyes  that  are  no  more. 

Deal  kindly  with  these  orchard  trees, 
And  when  your  children  crowd  your  knees, 
Their  sweetest  fruit  they  shall  impart, 
As  if  old  memories  stirred  their  heart ; 
To  youthful  sport  still  leave  the  swing, 
And  in  sweet  reverence  hold  the  spring. 

T.  B.  BEAD. 


THE    INVITATION. 

FROM   THB    GERMAN. 

I  have  a  cottage  by  the  hill, 

It  stands  upon  a  meadow  green, 
Behind  it  flows  a  murmuring  rill, 

Cool-rooted  moss  and  flowers  between. 

Beside  the  cottage  stands  a  tree, 
That  flings  its  shadow  o'er  the  eaves ; 

And  scarce  the  sunshine  visits  me, 

Save  when  a  light  wind  rifts  the  leaves. 

A  nightingale  sings  on  a  spray, 

Through  the  sweet  summer  time  night-long, 

And  evening  travelers,  on  their  way, 
Linger  to  hear  her  plaintive  song. 

Thou  maiden  with  the  yellow  hair, 
The  winds  of  life  are  sharpened  chill, 

Will  thou  not  seek  a  shelter  there, 
In  yon  lone  cottage  by  the  hill  ? 
Translation  of  8.  H.  WHITMAN.  JOIIANN  W.  L.  GLBIM,  1719-1803. 


MEDLEY.  341 


ICELANDIC    LINES. 

VKOM  THE   tllSCOUBSK  OF  Ol>lN. 

On  guests  who  come  with  frozen  knees 
Bestow  the  genial  warmth  of  fire  ; 
Who  has  walked  far  and  waded  streams 
Needs  cheering  food  and  drier  clothes. 

To  him  about  to  join  your  board, 
Clear  water  bring  to  cleanse  his  hands, 
And  treat  him  freely,  would  you  win 
The  kindly  word,  the  thankful  heart. 

Translation  of  W.  TAYLOK. 


DOMESTIC    PEACE. 

Tell  me  on  what  holy  ground 
May  Domestic  Peace  be  found — 
Halcyon  daughter  of  the  skies  ! 
far,  on  fearful  wings  she  flies, 
From  the  pomp  of  scepter'd  state, 
From  the  rebel's  noisy  hate. 
In  a  cottaged  vale  she  dwells, 
Listening  to  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen 
Spotless  Honor's  meeker  mien. 
Love,  the  sire  of  pleasing  fears, 
Sorrow  smiling  through  her  tears, 
And,  conscious  of  the  past  employ, 
Memory,  bosom-spring  of  joy. 

SAMCEL  TAYLOB  CULEBII>UK 


XXII. 


ANCIENT     HUNTING     SONG 

TPHE  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up  ! 
|    Sing  merrily  we,  the  hunt  is  up 

The  birds  they  sing, 

The  deer  they  fling, 

Hey,  nonny,  nony,  no  ; 

The  hounds  they  cry, 

The  hunters  fly, 

Hey,  trolilo,  trololilo. 
The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up  ! 
Sing  merrily  we,  the  hunt  is  up ! 

The  wood  resounds 
To  hear  the  sounds, 
Hey,  nonny,  nony,  no ; 
The  rocks  report 
This  merry  sport, 
Hey,  trolilo,  trololilo, 


THE      HUNT.  343 

The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up  ! 
Sing  merrily  we,  the  hunt  is  up  ! 

Then  hie  apace 

Unto  the  chase, 

Hey,  nonny,  nony,  no ! 

While  every  thing 

Doth  sweetly  sing 

Hey,  trolilo,  trololilo, 
The  hunt  is  up,  the  hunt  is  up  ! 
Sing  merrily  we,  the  hunt  is  up ! 

Anonymous. 


HOUNDS. 

My  hounds  are  bred  out  of  the  Spartan  kind ; 
So  flew'd,  so  sanded,  and  their  heads  are  hung 
With  ears  that  sweep  away  the  morning  dew ; 
Crook-knee'd  and  dew-lapp'd,  like  Thessalian  bulls ; 
Slow  in  pursuit,  but  matched  in  mouth  like  bells, 
Each  under  each  :  a  cry  more  tunable 
Was  never  halloo'd  to,  nor  cheered  with  horn. 

W.  SHAKSPEAEE. 


DEER    LEAP. 

In  our  way  to  Hound's-Down  we  rode  past  a  celebrated  spot,  called 
the  Deer  Leap.  Here  a  stag  was  once  shot,  which,  in  the  agony  of 
death,  collecting  his  force,  gave  a  bound  which  astonished  those  who 
saw  it.  It  was  immediately  commemorated  by  two  posts,  which  were 
fixed  at  the  two  extremities  of  the  leap,  where  they  still  remain.  The 
space  between  them  is  somewhat  more  than  eighteen  yards. 

GILPIN'S  "Jfew  forest." 


THE     HARE. 

FBOM   "  THK   CHABE." 

Delightful  scene ! 

Where  all  around  is  gay,  men,  horses,  dogs, 
And  in  each  smiling  countenance  appears 
Fresh  blooming  health  and  universal  joy. 

Huntsman!  lead  on — behind,  the  clustering  pack 
Submiss  attend,  hear  with  respect  thy  whip 


344  THE      HUNT. 

Loud  clanging,  and  thy  harsher  voice  obey. 

****** 

Here  on  this  verdant  spot,  where  Nature  kind 
With  double  blessings  crowns  the  farmer's  hopes ; 
Where  flowers  autumnal  spring,  and  the  rank  mead 
Affords  the  wandering  hares  a  rich  repast, 
Throw  off  thy  ready  pack.     See  where  they  spread. 
And  range  around,  and  dash  the  glittering  dew ! 
If  some  staunch  hound,  with  his  authentic  voice, 
Avow  the  recent  trail,  the  jostling  tribe 
Attend  his  call,  then  with  one  mutual  cry 
The  welcome  news  confirm,  and  echoing  hills 
Kepeat  the  pleasing  tale.     See  how  they  thread 
The  brakes,  and  up  yon  furrow  drive  along  ! 
But  quick  they  back  recoil,  and  wisely  check 
Their  eager  haste ;  then  o'er  the  fallow'd  ground 
How  leisurely  they  work,  and  many  a  pause 
Th'  harmonious  concert  breaks ;  till  more  assur'd, 
With  joy  redoubled,  the  low  valleys  ring. 
What  artful  labyrinths  perplex  their  way  ! 
Ah  !  there  she  lies  ;  how  close !  she  pants,  she  doubts 
If  now  she  lives ;  she  trembles  as  she  sits, 
With  horror  seiz'd  !     The  withered  grass  that  clings 
Around  her  head,  of  the  same  russet  hue, 
Almost  deceiv'd  my  sight,  had  not  her  eyes, 
With  life  full  beaming,  her  vain  wiles  betray'd. 
At  distance  draw  thy  pack;  let  all  be  hush'd — 
No  clamor  loud,  no  frantic  joy  be  heard, 
Lest  the  wild  hound  run  gadding  o'er  the  plain 
Untractable,  nor  hear  thy  chiding  voice. 
Now  gently  put  her  off;  see  how  direct 
To  her  known  mew  she  flies  !     Here,  huntsman,  bring 
(But  without  hurry)  all  thy  jolly  hounds, 
And  calmly  lay  them  in.     How  low  they  stoop, 
And  seem  to  plow  the  ground  !  then  all  at  once, 
With  greedy  nostrils,  snuff  the  fuming  steam 
That  glads  their  fluttering  hearts.     As  winds  let  loose 
From  the  dark  caverns  of  the  blustering  god, 
They  burst  away  and  sweep  the  dewy  lawn. 
Hope  gives  them  wings,  while  she's  spurred  on  by  fear. 
The  welkin  rings — wen,  dogs,  hills,  rocks,  and  woods 
In  the  full  Concert  join.     Now,  my  brave  youths, 
Stripp'd  for  the  chase,  give  all  your  souls  to  joy ! 
See  how  their  coursers,  than  the  mountain  roe 
More  fleet,  the  verdant  carpet  skim ;  thick  clouds 


THE      HUNT.  345 

Snorting  they  breathe ;  their  shining  hoofs  scarce  print 

The  grass  embruis'd  ;  with  emulation  fir'd, 

They  strain  to  lead  the  field,  top  the  barr'd  gate, 

O'er  the  deep  ditch  exulting  bound,  and  brush 

The  thorny- twining  hedge  :  the  riders  bend 

O'er  their  arch'd  necks  ;  with  steady  hands,  by  turns, 

Indulge  their  speed,  or  moderate  their  rage. 

Where  are  their  sorrows,  disappointments,  wrongs, 

Vexations,  sickness,  cares  ?     All,  all  are  gone, 

And  with  the  panting  winds  lag  far  behind. 

Huntsman  !  her  gait  observe ;  if  in  wide  rings 
She  wheel  her  mazy  way,  in  the  same  round 
Persisting  still,  she'll  foil  the  beaten  track ; 
But  if  she  fly,  and  with  the  favoring  wind 
Urge  her  bold  course,  less  intricate  thy  task : 
Push  on  thy  pack.     Like  some  poor  exil'd  wretch, 
The  frighted  Chase  leaves  her  late  dear  abodes ; 
O'er  plains  remote  she  stretches  far  away, 
Ah  !  never  to  return !    For  greedy  Death 
Hovering  exults,  secure  to  seize  his  prey. 

Hark  !  from  yon  covert,  where  those  towering  oaks 
Above  the  humble  copse  aspiring  rise, 
What  glorious  triumphs  burst  in  every  gale 
Upon  our  ravish'd  ears !     The  hunter's  shout, 
The  changing  horns,  swell  their  sweet- winding  notes ; 
The  pack  wide  opening  load  the  trembling  air 
With  various  melody  ;  from  tree  to  tree 
The  propagated  cry  redoubling  bounds, 
And  winged  zephyrs  waft  the  floating  joy 
Through  all  the  regions  near  :  afiiictive  birch 
No  more  the  school-boy  dreads ;  his  prison  broke, 
Scampering  he  flies,  nor  heeds  his  master's  call ; 
The  weary  traveler  forgets  his  road, 
And  climbs  th'  adjacent  hill ;  the  plowman  leaves 
Th'  unfinish'd  furrow  ;  nor  his  bleating  flocks  are  now 
The  shepherd's  joy !    Men,  boys,  and  girls 
Desert  th'  unpeopled  village,  and  wild  crowds 
Spread  o'er  the  plain,  by  the  sweet  frenzy  seiz'd. 
Look,  how  she  pants !  and  o'er  yon  opening  glade 
Slips  glancing  by !  while,  at  the  farther  end, 
The  puzzled  pack  unravel  wile  by  wile, 
Maze  within  maze.    The  covert's  utmost  bound 
Slily  she  skirts ;  behind  them  cautious  creeps ; 
And  in  that  very  track,  so  lately  stuin'd 
By  all  the  steaming  crowd,  seems  to  pursue 
15* 


346  THE      HUNT. 

The  foe  she  flies.    Let  cavilers  deny 
That  brutes  have  reason  ;  sure  'tis  something  more, 
'Tis  Heaven  directs,  and  stratagems  inspires 
Beyond  the  short  extent  of  human  thought. 
But  hold  !  I  see  her  from  her  covert  break ; 
Sad  on  yon  little  eminence  she  sits  ; 
Intent  she  listens,  with  one  ear  erect, 
Pondering,  and  doubtful  what  new  course  to  take, 
And  how  t'  escape  the  fierce,  blood-thirsty  crew 
That  still  urge  on,  and  still  in  valleys  loud 
Insult  her  woes,  and  mock  her  sore  distress. 
As  now  in  louder  peals  the  loaded  winds 
Bring  on  the  gathering  storm,  her  fears  prevail, 
And  o'er  the  plain,  and  o'er  the  mountain's  ridge 
Away  she  flies  ;  nor  ships  with  wind  and  tide, 
And  all  their  canvas  wings,  scud  half  so  fast. 
Once  more,  ye  jovial  train,  your  courage  try, 
And  each  clean  courser's  speed.     We  scour  along 
In  pleasing  hurry  and  confusion  lost ; 
Oblivion  to  be  wish'd.     The  patient  pack 
Hang  on  the  scent  unwearied ;  up  they  climb, 
And  ardent  we  pursue  ;  our  laboring  steeds 
We  press,  we  gore ;  till  once  the  summit  gain'd, 
Painfully  panting,  there  we  breathe  awhile ; 
Then,  like  a  foaming  torrent,  pouring  down 
Precipitant,  we  smoke  along  the  vale. 
Happy  the  man  who  with  unrival'd  speed 
Can  pass  his  fellows,  and  with  pleasure  view 
The  struggling  pack  ;  how  in  the  rapid  course 
Alternate  they  preside,  and  jostling  push 
To  guide  the  dubious  scent ;  how  giddy  youth 
Oft  babbling  errs,  by  wiser  age  reprov'd  ; 
How  niggard  of  his  strength,  the  wise  old  hound 
Hangs  in  the  rear,  till  some  important  point 
Rouse  all  his  diligence,  or  till  the  Chase 
Sinking  he  finds :  then  to  the  head  he  springs, 
With  thirst  of  glory  fir'd,  and  wins  the  prize. 
Huntsman,  take  heed ;  they  stop  in  full  career  ! 
Yon  crowding  flocks,  that  at  a  distance  gaze, 
Have  haply  foil'd  the  turf.     See !  that  old  hound, 
How  busily  he  works,  but  dares  not  trust 
His  doubtful  sense ;  draw  yet  a  wider  ring. 
Hark  !  now  again  the  chorus  fills.     As  bells 
Stilled  awhile,  at  once  their  peal  renew, 
And  high  in  air  the  tuneful  thunder  rolls. 


THE      HUNT. 


347 


See  how  they  toss,  with  animated  rage 

Recovering  all  they  lost !     That  eager  haste 

Some  doubling  wile  foreshows.     Ah  !  yet  once  more 

They're  checked — hold  back  with  speed — on  either  hand 

They  flourish  round — ev'n  yet  persist.     'Tis  right ; 

Away  they  spring ;  the  rustling  stubble^jbend 

Beneath  the  driving  storm.     How  the  poor  Chase 

Begins  to  flag,  to  her  last  shifts  reduc'd  ! 

From  brake  to  brake  she  flies,  and  visits  all 

Her  well-known  haunts,  where  once  she  rang'd  secure, 

With  love  and  plenty  blest.    See !  there  she  goes, 

She  reels  along,  and  by  her  gait  betrays 

Her  inward  weakness.     See  how  black  she  looks ! 

The  sweat  that  clogs  th'  obstructed  pores  scarce  leaves 

A  languid  scent.     And  now  in  open  view, 

See,  see,  she  flies !  each  eager  hound  exerts 

His  utmost  speed,  and  stretches  every  nerve. 

How  quick  she  turns !  their  gaping  jaws  eludes, 

And  yet  a  moment  lives  ;  till,  round  inclos'd 

By  all  the  greedy  pack,  with  infant  screams 

She  yields  her  breath,  and  there  reluctant  dies ! 

WILLIAM  SOMERVILLE,  1692-1742. 


A    HUNTER'S    MATIN. 

Up,  comrades,  up  !  the  morn's  awake 

Upon  the  mountain  side, 
The  curlew's  wing  hath  swept  the  lake, 
And  the  deer  has  left  the  tangled  brake, 

To  drink  from  the  limpid  tide. 

Up,  comrades,  up  !  the  mead-lark's  note 
An$  the  plover's  cry  o'er  the  prairie  float ; 
The  squirrel  he  springs  from  Lis  covert  now, 
To  prank  it  away  on  the  chestnut  bough, 
Where  the  oriole's  pendent  nest,  high  up, 

Is  rock'd  on  the  swaying  trees, 
While  the  hum-bird  sips  from  the  harebell's  cup, 

As  it  bends  to  the  morning  breeze. 

Up,  comrades,  up !  our  shallops  grate 

Upon  the  pebbly  strand, 
And  our  stalwart  hounds  impatient  wait 

To  spring  from  the  huntsman's  hand ! 

CUA.RLKS  FK.NNO  HOFFMAX. 


348  THE      HUNT. 


A    SPORTSMAN    OF    OLDEN    TIME. 

I  shall  conclude  this^ccount  of  the  officers  of  the  forest  with  the  sin- 
gular character  of  onfc^f  them  who  lived  in  the  times  of  James  I.  and 
Charles  I.  *  *  * 

The  name  of  this  memorable  sportsman — for  in  that  character  alone 
was  he  conspicuous — was  Henry  Hastings.  He  was  second  son  to  the 
Earl  of  Huntingdon,  and  inherited  a  good  estate  in  Dorsetshire  from  his 
mother.  He  was  one  of  the  keepers  of  New  Forest,  and  resided  in  his 
lodge  there  during  a  part  of  every  hunting-season.  But  his  principal 
residence  was  at  Woodlands,  in  Dorsetshire,  where  he  had  a  capital 
mansion.  One  of  his  nearest  neighbors  was  Anthony  Cooper,  afterward 
Earl  of  Shaftesbury.  Two  men  could  not  be  more  opposite  in  their 
dispositions  and  pursuits.  They  seldom  saw  each  other,  and  their  occa- 
sional meetings  were  still  more  disagreeable  to  both,  from  their  opposite 
sentiments  in  politics.  Lord  Shaftesbury,  who  was  the  younger  man, 
was  the  survivor ;  and  the  following  account  of  Mr.  Hastings,  which  I 
have  somewhat  abridged,  is  said  to  have  been  the  production  of  his 
pen.  If  Mr.  Hastings  had  been  the  survivor,  and  had  lived  to  have  seen 
Lord  Shaftesbury  one  of  the  infamous  ministers  of  Charles  II.,  he  might, 
with  interest,  have  returned  the  compliment. 

Mr.  Hastings  was  low  of  stature,  but  strong  and  active ;  of  a  ruddy 
complexion,  with  flaxen  hair.  His  clothes  were  always  of  green  cloth. 
His  house  was  of  the  old  fashion,  in  the  midst  of  a  large  park,  well 
stocked  with  deer,  rabbits,  and  fish-ponds.  He  had  a  long,  narrow 
bowling-green  in  it,  and  used  to  play  with  round  sand-bowls.  Here, 
too,  he  had  a  banqueting- room  built,  like  a  stand,  in  a  large  tree.  He 
kept  all  sorts  of  hounds  that  ran  buck,  fox,  hare,  otter,  and  badger ; 
and  had  hawks  of  all  kinds,  both  long  and  short  winged.  His  great 
hall  was  commonly  strewed  with  marrow-bones,  and  full  of  hawk-perch- 
es, hounds,  spaniels,  and  terriers ;  the  upper  end  of  it  was  hung  with 
fox-skins  of  this  and  the  last  year's  killing.  Here  and  there  a  polecat 
was  intermixed,  and  hunters'  poles  in  great  abundance.  The  parlor  was 
a  large  room,  completely  furnished  in  the  same  style.  On  a  broad  hearth, 
paved  with  brick,  lay  some  of  the  choicest  terriers,  hounds,  and  span- 
iels. One  or  two  of  the  great  chairs  had  litters  of  cats  in  them,  which 
were  not  to  be  disturbed.  Of  these,  three  or  four  always  attended  him 
at  dinner,  and  a  little  white  wand  lay  by  his  trencher  to  defend  it  if 
they  were  too  troublesome.  In  the  windows — which  were  very  large — 
lay  his  arrows,  cross-bows,  and  other  accoutrements.  The  corners  of 
the  room  were  filled  with  his  best  hunting  and  hawking  poles.  His  oys- 
ter-table stood  at  the  lower  end  of  the  room,  which  was  in  constant  use 
twice  a  day,  all  the  year  round,  for  he  never  failed  to  eat  oysters,  both 


THE      HUNT.  349 

at  dinner  and  supper,  with  which  the  neighboring  town  of  Pool  supplied 
him.  At  the  upper  end  of  the  room  stood  a  small  table  with  a  double 
desk,  one  side  of  which  held  a  church  Bible,  the  other  the  Book  of  Mar- 
tyrs. On  different  tables  in  the  room  lay  hawk's-hoods ;  bells ;  old  hats, 
with  their  crowns  thrust  in,  full  of  pheasant  eggs ;  tables ;  dice ;  cards ; 
and  a  store  of  tobacco-pipes.  At  one  end  of  this  room  was  a  door  which 
opened  into  a  closet,  where  stood  bottles  of  strong  beer  and  wine,  which 
never  came  out  but  in  single  glasses,  which  was  the  rule  of  the  house  ; 
for  he  never  exceeded  himself,  nor  permitted  others  to  exceed.  Answer- 
ing to  this  closet  was  a  door  into  an  old  chapel — which  had  been  long 
disused — for  devotion  :  but  in  the  pulpit,  at  the  safest  place,  was  always 
to  be  found  a  cold  shin  of  beef,  a  venison  pasty,  a  gammon  of  bacon,  or 
a  great  apple-pie,  with  thick  crust,  well  baked.  His  table  cost  him  not 
much,  though  it  was  good  to  eat  at.  His  sports  supplied  all  but  beef 
and  mutton,  except  on  Fridays,  when  he  had  the  best  of  fish.  He  never 
wanted  a  London  pudding ;  and  he  always  sang  it  in  with  "  My  part  lies 
therein — a — ."  He  drank  a  glass  or  two  of  wine  at  meals,  put  syrup 
of  gilliflowers  into  his  sack,  and  had  always  a  tun-glass  of  small  beer 
standing  by  him,  which  he  often  stirred  about  with  rosemary.  He  lived 
to  be  an  hundred,  and  never  lost  his  eyesight,  nor  used  spectacles.  He 
got  on  horseback  without  help,  and  rode  to  the  death  of  the  stag  till  past 
fourscore. 

WILLIAM  GILPIX,  1724-1807. 


SONNET. 

Old  Harry  Hastings  !  of  thy  forest  life 

How  whimsical,  how  picturesque  the  charms ! 

Yet  it  was  sensual !     With  thy  hounds  and  horn, 

How  cheerily  didst  thou  salute  the  morn  ! 
With  airy  steed  didst  thou  pursue  the  strife, 

Sounding  through  all  the  woodland-glades  alarms. 

Sunk  not  a  dell,  and  not  a  thicket  grew, 

But  thy  skilFd  eye  and  long  experience  knew. 
The  herds  were  thy  acquaintance ;  antler'd  deer 
Knew  where  to  trust  thy  voice,  and  where  to  fear ; 

And  through  the  shadowy  oaks  of  giant  size, 
Thy  bugle  could  the  distant  sylvans  hear, 

And  wood-nymphs  from  their  bowery  bed  would  rise. 

And  echoes  dancing  round  repeat  their  ecstasies. 

SIB  EGKBTON  BBYDGBS,  1762-1887. 


350  THE      HUNT. 


SONNET. 

There  is  exhilaration  in  the  chase — 

Not  bodily  only  !    Bursting  from  the  woods, 
Or  having  climb'd  some  misty  mountain's  height, 

When  on  our  eyes  a  glorious  prospect  opes, 
With  rapture  we  the  golden  view  embrace : 

Then  worshiping  the  sun  on  silver  floods, 
And  blazing  towers,  and  spires,  and  cities  bright 

With  his  reflected  beams ;  and  down  the  slopes 
The  tumbling  torrents ;  from  the  forest-mass 

Of  darkness  issuing,  we  with  double  force 
Along  the  gayly-checker'd  landscape  pass, 

And,  bounding  with  delight,  pursue  our  course. 
It  is  a  mingled  rapture,  and  we  find 
The  bodily  spirit  mounting  to  the  mind. 

SIB  EGEBTON  BEYDGBS,  1762-183T. 


LINES. 

This  world  a  hunting  is 

The  prey,  poor  man ;  the  Nimrod  fierce  is  Death  ; 

His  speedy  grayhounds  are 

Lust,  sickness,  envy,  care, 

Strife  that  ne'er  falls  amiss, 

With  all  those  ills  that  harm'd  us  while  we  breathe. 

Now  if  by  chance  we  fly, 

Of  these  the  eager  chase, 

Old  age,  with  stealing  pace, 

Casts  on  us  his  nets,  and  then  we  panting  die. 

WILLIAM  DRUMMOND,  1585-1649. 


XXIII. 


ODE. 


HOW  happy  in  his  low  degree. 
How  rich  in  humble  poverty  is  he, 
Who  leads  a  quiet  country  life  ; 
Discharg'd  of  business,  void  of  strife, 

And  from  the  griping  scrivener  free  ! 
Thus,  ere  the  seeds  of  vice  were  sown 

Liv'd  men  in  better  ages  born, 
Who  plow'd  with  oxen  of  their  own 

Their  small  paternal  field  of  corn. 
Nor  trumpets  summon  him  to  war, 

Nor  drums  disturb  his  morning  sleep, 
Nor  knows  he  merchants'  painful  care, 

Nor  fears  the  dangers  of  the  deep. 
The  clamors  of  contentious  law, 

And  court  and  state,  he  wisely  shuns ; 
Nor  brib'd.  with  hopes,  nor  dar'd  with  awe, 


352  MEDLEY. 

To  servile  salutations  runs ; 
But  either  to  the  clasping  vine 

Does  the  supporting  poplar  wed, 
Or  with  his  pruning-hook  disjoin 

Unbearing  branches  from  their  head, 

And  grafts  more  happy  in  their  stead  ; 
Or  climbing  to  a  hilly  steep, 

He  views  his  buds  in  vales  afar, 
Or  shears  his  overburden'd  sheep, 

Or  mead  for  cooling  drink  prepares 

Of  virgin  honey  in  the  jars ; 
Or,  in  the  now  declining  year, 

When  beauteous  Autumn  rears  his  head, 
He  joys  to  pull  the  ripen'd  pear 

And  clust'ring  grapes,  with  purple  spread. 
Sometimes  beneath  an  ancient  oak, 

Or  on  the  matted  grass,  he  lies ; 
No  god  of  Sleep  he  need  invoke  ; 

The  stream  that  o'er  the  pebble  flies, 

With  gentle  slumber  crowns  his  eyes, 
The  wind  that  whistles  through  the  sprays 

Maintains  the  concert  of  the  song  ; 
And  hidden  birds,  with  native  lays, 

The  golden  sleep  prolong. 
But  when  the  blast  of  winter  blows, 

And  hoary  frost  invests  the  year, 
Into  the  naked  woods  he  goes, 

And  seeks  the  tusky  boar  to  near, 

With  well-mouthed  hounds  and  pointed  spear  ! 
Or  spreads  his  subtile  nets  from  sight, 

With  twinkling  glasses  to  betray 
The  larks  that  in  the  meshes  light ; 

Or  makes  the  fearful  bear  his  prey. 
Amidst  his  harmless,  easy  joys, 

No  anxious  care  invades  his  health, 
Nor  love  his  peace  of  mind  destroys, 

Nor  wicked  avarice  of  wealth. 
But  if  a  chaste  and  pleasing  wife, 
To  business  of  his  life, 
Divides  with  him  his  household  care, 
Such  as  the  Sabine  matrons  were, 
Such  as  the  swift  Apulian's  bride, 

Sunburnt  and  swarthy  though  she  be, 
Will  fire  for  winter  nights  provide, 

And — without  noise — will  oversee 


MEDLEY.  353 

His  children  and  his  family  ; 
And  order  all  things  till  he  come, 
Sweaty  and  over-labored,  home  ; 
If  she  in  pens  his  flock  will  fold, 

And  then  produce  her  dairy  store, 
With  wine  to  drive  away  the  cold, 

And  unbought  dainties  for  the  poor  ; 
Not  oysters  of  the  Lucrine  lake 

My  sober  appetite  would  wish, 

Nor  turbot,  or  the  foreign  fish 
That  rolling  tempests  overtake, 

And  hither  waft  the  costly  dish. 
Not  heathpoult,  or  the  rarer  bird, 

Which  Phasis  or  Ionia  yields, 
More  pleasing  morsels  would  afford 

Than  the  fat  olives  of  my  fields ; 
Than  shards  or  mallows  for  the  pot, 

That  keep  the  loosened  body  sound  ; 
Or  than  the  lamb,  that  Mis  by  lot 

To  the  just  guardian  of  my  ground. 
Amidst  these  feasts  of  happy  swains, 

The  jolly  shepherd  smiles  to  see 
His  flock  returning  from  the  plains ; 

The  farmer  is  as  pleased  as  he, 
To  view  his  oxen  sweating  smoke, 
Bear  on  their  necks  the  loosen'd  yoke  ; 

To  look  upon  his  menial  crew, 
That  sit  around  his  cheerful  hearth, 

And  bodies  spent  in  toil  renew 
With  wholesome  food  and  country  mirth. 

This  Alphius  said  within  himself, 
Resolv'd  to  leave  the  wicked  town, 
And  live  retir'd  upon  his  own, 

He  call'd  his  money  in  ; 
But  the  prevailing  love  of  pelf, 
Soon  split  him  on  the  former  shelf — 
He  put  it  out  again. 

Translation  of  DRYDEN. 


LETTER    OF    SIR    THOMAS    MORE    TO    HIS    WIFE. 

Mistress  Alice,  in  my  most  heartywise  I  recommend  me  to  you.  And 
whereas  I  nm  informed  by  my  son  Heron  of  the  loss  of  our  barns  and  our 
neighbours'  also,  with  all  the  corn  that  was  therein  ;  albeit  (saving  God's 


354  MEDLEY. 

pleasure)  it  is  great  pity  of  so  much  good  corn  lost ;  yet  since  it  has 
liked  him  to  send  us  such  a  chance,  we  must  and  are  bounden,  not  only 
to  be  content,  but  also  to  be  glad  of  his  visitation.  He  sent  us  all  that 
we  have  lost ;  and  since  he  hath  by  such  a  chance  taken  it  away  again, 
his  pleasure  be  fulfilled  !  Let  us  never  grudge  thereat,  but  take  it  in 
good  worth,  and  heartily  thank  him,  as  well  for  adversity  as  for  pros- 
perity. And  peradventure  we  have  more  cause  to  thank  him  for  our 
loss  than  for  our  winning,  for  his  wisdom  better  seeth  what  is  good  for 
us  than  we  do  ourselves.  Therefore,  I  pray  you  be  of  good  cheer,  and 
take  all  the  household  with  you  to  church,  and  there  thank  God,  both 
for  that  he  has  given  us,  and  for  that  he  has  taken  from  us,  and  for 
that  he  hath  left  us  ;  which,  if  it  please  him,  he  can  increase  when  he 
will,  and  if  it  please  him  to  leave  us  yet  less,  at  his  pleasure  be  it ! 

I  pray  you  to  make  some  good  onsearch  what  my  poor  neighbours  have 
lost,  and  bid  them  make  no  thought  therefor  ;  for,  if  I  should  not  leave 
myself  a  spoon,  there  shall  no  poor  neighbour  of  mine  bear  no  loss  by 
my  chance,  happened  in  my  house.  I  pray  you  be,  with  my  children, 
and  your  household,  merry  in  God ;  and  devise  somewhat  with  your 
friends  what  way  were  best  to  take,  for  provision  to  be  made  for  corn 
for  our  household,  and  for  seed  this  year  coming,  if  we  think  it  good 
that  we  keep  the  ground  still  in  our  hands.  And  whether  we  think  it 
good  that  we  so  shall  do  or  not,  yet  I  think  it  were  not  best  suddenly 
thus  to  leave  it  all  up,  and  to  put  away  our  folk  from  our  farm,  till  we 
have  somewhat  advised  us  thereon.  Howbeit,  if  we  have  more  now  than 
ye  shall  need,  and  which  can  get  them  other  masters,  ye  may  then  dis- 
charge us  of  them.  But  I  would  not  that  any  man  were  suddenly/  sent 
away,  he  wot  not  whither. 

At  my  coming  hither,  I  perceived  none  other  but  that  I  should  tarry 
still  with  the  king's  grace.  But  now  I  shall,  I  think,  because  of  this 
chance,  get  leave  this  next  week  to  come  home  and  see  you,  and  then 
shall  we  farther  devise  together  upon  all  things,  what  order  shall  be  best 
to  take. 

And  thus  as  heartily  fare  you  well,  with  all  our  children,  as  ye  can 
wish.  At  Woodstock,  the  third  day  of  September,  by  the  hand  of 

THOMAS  MOKE,  1480-1535. 


PEASANT    PAVO. 


Mid  the  high  bleak  moors  of  Saarijarvis, 
On  a  sterile  farm,  lived  peasant  Pavo, 
And  its  poor  soil  tilled  with  care  untiring, 
Trusting  to  the  Lord  to  send  the  increase. 
Here  he  lived  with  wife  and  little  children, 


MEDLEY.  355 

With  them  of  sweat-earned  bread  partaking. 
Dikes  he  dug,  arid  plowed  his  land  and  sowed  it. 
Spring-time  came,  and  now  the  melting  snow-drifts 
Drenched  the  fields,  and  half  the  young  crop  perished ; 
Summer  came,  and  the  descending  hail-storms 
Dashed  the  early  ears  down,  half  destroying ; 
Autumn  came,  and  frosts  the  remnant  blasted. 

Pavo's  wife  she  tore  her  hair,  and  spake  thus  : 
"  Pavo,  Pavo  !  man  the  most  unhappy, 
Take  thy  staff ;  by  God  we  are  forsaken  ; 
Hard  it  is  to  beg.  to  starve  is  harder  !" 
Pavo  took  her  hand,  and  thus  he  answered  : 
"  God  doth  try  his  servant,  not  forsake  him  ; 
Bread  made  half  of  bark  must  now  suffice  us  ! 
I  will  dig  the  dikes  of  two- fold  deepness ; 
But  from  God  will  I  await  the  increase  !" 
She  made  bread  of  corn  and  bark  together ; 
He  dug  lower  dikes  with  double  labor, 
Sold  his  sheep,  and  purchased  rye  and  sowed  it. 
Spring-time  came,  again  the  melting  snow-drifts 
Drenched  the  fields,  and  half  the  young  crop  perished  ; 
Summer  came,  and  the  descending  hail-storms 
Dashed  the  early  ears  down,  half  destroying ; 
Autumn  came,  and  frosts  the  remnant  blasted. 

Pavo's  wife  she  smote  her  breast,  exclaiming  : 
"  Pavo,  Pavo  !  man  the  most  unhappy, 
Let  us  die,  for  God  hath  us  forsaken : 
Hard  it  is  to  die,  to  live  is  harder  !" 
Pavo  took  her  hand,  and  thus  he  answered  : 
"  God  doth  try  his  servant,  not  forsake  him  ; 
Bread  made  half  of  bark  must  still  suffice  us  ! 
I  will  dig  the  dikes  of  double  deepness  ; 
But  from  Heaven  I  will  expect  the  increase  !" 
She  made  bread  of  corn  and  bark  together ; 
He  dug  lower  dikes  with  double  labor, 
Sold  his  cattle,  purchased  rye  and  sowed  it. 
Spring-time  came,  but  now  the  melting  snow-drifts 
Left  the  young  crops  in  the  fields  uninjured  ; 
Summer  came,  but  the  descending  hail-storms 
Duslu'd  not  down  the  rich  ears,  naught  destroying  ; 
Autumn  came,  and  saw,  by  frosts  unblighted, 
Wave  tlu>  golden  harvest  for  the  reaper. 

Then  fell  Pavo  on  his  knees,  thus  speaking  : 
"God  hath  only  tried  us,  not  forsaken!" 
On  her  knees  his  wife  fell,  and  thus  said  she  : 


356  MEDLEY. 

"  God  hath  only  tried  us,  not  forsaken  !" 
And  then  gladly  spake  she  to  her  husband  : 
"  Pavo,  Pavo  !  take  with  joy  the  sickle, 
We  may  now  make  glad  our  hearts  with  plenty, 
Now  may  throw  away  the  bark  unsavory, 
And  bake  rich,  sweet  bread  of  rye-meal  only !" 

Pavo  took  her  hand  in  his,  and  answered  : 
"  Woman,  woman  !  'tis  but  sent  to  try  us, 
If  we  will  have  pity  on  the  sufferer. 
Mix  thou  bark  with  corn  even  as  aforetime, 
Frosts  have  killed  the  harvest  of  our  neighbor." 
Translation  of  MRS.  HOWITT.  Jon  ANN  LUDWIG  ETTNKBERG. 


COUNTRY    LIFE, 


FROM    THE    GERMAN. 


Happy  the  man  who  has  the  town  escaped  ! 

To  him  the  whistling  trees,  the  murmuring  brooks, 

The  shining  pebbles  preach 

Virtue's  and  wisdom's  lore. 

The  whispering  grove  a  holy  temple  is 

To  him,  where  God  draws  nigher  to  his  soul ; 

Each  verdant  sod  a  shrine 

Whereby  he  kneels  to  Heaven. 

The  nightingale  on  him  sings  slumber  down — 
The  nightingale  rewakes  him.  fluting  sweet, 

When  shines  the  lovely  red 

Of  morning  through  the  trees. 

Then  he  admires  thee  in  the  plain,  0  God ! 
In  the  ascending  pomp  of  dawning  day — 

Thee  in  the  glorious  sun — 

The  worm — the  budding  branch. 

Where  coolness  gushes  in  the  waving  grass, 

Or  o'er  the  flowers,  streams,  and  fountains  rests ; 

Inhales  the  breath  of  prime, 

The  gentle  airs  of  eve. 

His  straw-decked  thatch,  where  doves  bask  in  the  sun. 
And  play  and  hop,  incites  to  sweeter  rest 

Than  golden  halls  of  state 

Or  beds  of  down  afford. 


MEDLEY.  357 

To  him  the  plumy-people  sporting  chirp, 
Chatter,  and  whistle,  on  his  basket  perch, 

And  from  his  quiet  hand 

Pick  crumbs,  or  peas,  or  grains. 

Oft  wanders  he  alone,  and  thinks  on  death  ; 
And  in  the  village  church -yard  by  the  graves 

Sits,  and  beholds  the  cross — 

Death's  waving  garland  there. 

The  stone  beneath  the  elders,  where  a  text 
Of  Scripture  teaches  joyfully  to  die — 

And  with  his  scythe  stands  Death — 

An  angel,  too,  with  palms. 

Happy  the  man  who  thus  hath  'scaped  the  town ! 
Him  did  an  angel  bless  when  he  was  born — 
The  cradle  of  the  boy 
With  flowers  celestial  strewed. 
Translation  of  0.  T.  BROOKS.  LUDWIG  HOLTT. 


SCENE    IN    AN    AMERICAN    FOREST. 

FROM   A   LKTTKR  OF   LORD   EDWARD    F1TZGKRAI.D  TO   THK    DUCHESS  OF   LKIN8TKR. 

ST.  JOHN'S,  NEW  BRUNSWICK,  July  8, 1788. 

MY  DEAREST  MOTHER — Here  I  am.  after  a  very  long  and  fatiguing 
journey.  I  had  no  idea  of  what  it  was ;  it  was  more  like  a  campaign 
than  anything  else,  except  in  one  material  point,  that  of  having  no 
danger.  I  should  have  enjoyed  it  most  completely  but  for  the  mus- 
quitoes,  but  they  took  off  a  great  deal  of  my  pleasure ;  the  millions  of 
them  are  dreadful ;  if  it  had  not  been  for  this  inconvenience,  my  jour- 
ney would  have  been  delightful.  The  country  is  almost  all  in  a  state  of 
nature,  as  well  as  its  inhabitants.  There  are  four  sorts  of  these — the 
Indians,  the  French,  the  old  English  settlers,  and  now  the  refugees  from 
other  parts  of  America  ;  the  last  seem  the  most  civilized.  The  old  set- 
tlers are  almost  as  wild  as  Indians,  but  lead  a  very  comfortable  life ; 
they  are  all  farmers,  and  live  entirely  within  themselves.  *  *  * 
1  came  by  a  settlement  along  one  of  the  rivers,  which  was  all  the  work 
of  one  pair  ;  the  old  man  was  seventy-two,  the  old  lady  seventy  ;  they 
had  been  there  thirty  years ;  they  came  there  with  one  cow,  three  chil- 
dren, and  one  servant ;  ||iere  was  not  a  being  within  sixty  miles  of 
them.  The  first  year  they  lived  mostly  on  milk  and  marsh  leaves ;  the 
second  year  they  contrived  to  purchase  a  bull  by  the  produce  of  their 
moose  skins  and  fish  ;  from  this  time  they  got  on  very  well ;  and  there 
are  now  five  sons  and  a  daughter,  all  settled  in  different  farms  along  the 


358  MEDLEY. 

river  for  the  space  of  twenty  miles,  and  all  living  comfortably  and  at 
ease.  The  old  pair  live  alone  in  the  little  old  cabin  they  first  settled  in, 
two  miles  from  any  of  their  children  ;  their  little  spot  of  ground  is  cul- 
tivated by  these  children,  and  they  are  supplied  with  so  much  butter, 
grain,  meal,  etc.,  from  each  child,  according  to  the  share  he  got  of  the 
land,  so  that  the  old  folks  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  mind  their  house, 
which  is  a  kind  of  inn  they  keep,  more  for  the  sake  of  the  company  of 
the  few  travelers  there  are  than  for  gain.  I  was  obliged  to  stay  a  day 
with  the  old  people,  on  account  of  the  tides,  which  did  not  answer  for 
going  up  the  river  till  next  morning.  It  was,  I  think,  as  odd  and  plea- 
sant a  day,  in  its  way,  as  ever  I  passed.  I  wish  I  could  describe  it  to 
you,  but  I  can  not ;  you  must  only  help  it  out  with  your  own  imagina- 
tion. Conceive,  dearest  mother,  arriving  about  twelve  o'clock  in  a  hot 
day,  at  a  little  cabin  upon  the  side  of  a  rapid  river,  the  banks  all  cov- 
ered with  wood,  not  a  house  in  sight,  and  there  finding  a  little,  clean, 
tidy  woman  spinning,  with  an  old  man,  of  the  same  appearance,  weed- 
ing salad.  We  had  come  for  ten  miles  up  the  river  without  seeing  any 
thing  but  woods.  The  old  pair,  on  our  arrival,  got  as  active  as  if  only 
five-and-twenty,  the  gentleman  getting  wood  and  water,  the  lady  frying 
eggs  and  bacon,  both  talking  a  great  deal,  telling  their  story,  as  I 
mentioned  before,  how  they  had  been  there  thirty  years,  and  how  their 
children  were  settled,  and,  when  cither's  back  was  turned,  remarking 
how  old  the  other  had  grown ;  at  the  same  time  all  kindness,  all  cheer- 
fulness, and  love  to  each  other.  The  contrast  of  all  this,  which  had 
passed  during  the  day,  with  the  quietness  of  the  evening,  when  the 
spirits  of  the  old  people  had  a  little  subsided  and  began  to  wear  oif  with 
the  day,  and  with  the  fatigue  of  their  little  work,  sitting  quietly  at  their 
door,  on  the  same  spot  they  had  lived  in  thirty  years  together ;  the  con- 
tented thoughtfulness  of  their  countenances,  which  was  increased  by 
their  age  and  the  solitary  life  they  had  led ;  the  wild  quietness  of  the 
place — not  a  living  creature  or  habitation  to  be  seen — and  me,  Tony, 
and  our  guide,  sitting  with  them,  all  on  one  log ;  the  difference  of  the 
scene  1  had  left — the  immense  way  I  had  to  get  from  this  corner  of  the 
world  to  any  thing  I  loved — the  difference  of  the  life  I  should  lead  from 
that  of  this  old  pair,  perhaps  at  their  age  discontented,  disappointed, 
and  miserable,  wishing  for  power — my  dearest  mother,  if  it  was  not 
for  you,  I  believe  I  never  should  go  home,  at  least  I  thought  so  at  that 
moment.  However,  here  I  am  with  my  regiment,  up  at  six  in  the  morn- 
ing doing  all  sorts  of  right  things,  and  liking  it  very  much,  determined 
to  go  home  next  spring,  and  live  with  you  a  great  deal.  Employment 
keeps  up  my  spirits,  and  I  shall  have  more1  oyery  day.  I  own  I  often 

think  how  happy  I  should  be  with  G ,  in  some  of  the  spots  I  see ; 

and  envied  every  young  farmer  I  met  whom  I  saw  sitting  down  with  a 
young  wife  whom  he  was  going  to  work  to  maintain,  I  believe  these 
thoughts  made  my  journey  pleasanter  than  it  otherwise  would  have 


MEDLEY.  359 

been ;  but  I  don't  give  way  to  them  here.  Dearest  mother,  I  sometimes 
hope  it  will  all  end  well ;  but  shall  not  think  any  more  of  it  till  I  hear 
from  England.  *  *  *  *  * 

EDWARD  FITZGERALD,  1T68-1793. 


SONG. 

See,  0  see ! 

How  every  tree, 

Every  bower, 

Every  flower, 
A  new  life  gives  to  others'  joys, 

While  that  I 

Grief-stricken  lie, 

Nor  can  meet 

With  any  sweet 
But  what  faster  mine  destroys. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures, 
When  the  mind  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

Hear,  0  hear ! 

How  sweet  and  clear 

The  nightingale 

And  water's  fall 
In  concert  join  for  others'  ear, 

While  to  me, 

For  harmony, 

Every  air 

Echoes  despair, 

And  every  drop  provokes  a  tear. 
What  are  all  the  senses'  pleasures, 
When  the  soul  has  lost  all  measures  ? 

GKORQB  DIGBY,  Earl  of  Bristol,  1612-1676. 


SONG. 

Sweet  are  the  thoughts  that  savor  of  content ; 

The  quiet  mind  is  richer  than  a  crown ; 
Sweet  are  the  nights  in  careless  slumber  spent ; 

The  poor  estate  scorns  Fortune's  angry  frowns ; 
Such  sweet  content,  such  minds,  such  sleep,  such  bliss 
Beggars  enjoy,  when  princes  oft  do  miss. 

The  homely  house  thivt  harbors  quiet  rest, 
The  cottage  that  affords  no  pride  or  care, 


360  MEDLEY. 

The  mean  that  'grees  with  country  music  best, 
The  sweet  consort  of  mirth  and  music's  fare, 
Obscured  life  sets  down  a  type  of  bliss  ; 
A  mind  content  both  crown  and  kingdom  is. 

EGBERT  GREEN,  1550-3592. 


BLESSINGS    OF    A    COUNTRY    LIFE. 


Far  from  our  debtors ;  no  Dublin  letters  ; 
Not  seen  by  our  betters. 

PLAGUES    OF    A    COUNTRY    LIFE. 

A  companion  with  news  ;  a  great  want  of  shoes ; 
Eat  lean  meat  or  choose  ;  a  church  without  pews ; 
Our  horses  away ;  no  straw,  oats,  or  hay  ; 
December  in  May ;  our  boys  run  away  ;  all  servants  at  play  ! 

JONATHAN  SWIFT,  1667-1723. 


XXIV. 


A    STORM    IN    AUTUMN. 

FROM   THE   LATIN   OF  VIBOIL. 

WHY  should  I  mark  each  storm  and  starry  sign, 
When  milder  suns  in  autumn  swift  decline  ? 
Or  what  new  cares  await  the  vernal  hour, 
When  spring  descends  in  many  a  driving  shower, 
While  bristle  into  ear  the  bearded  plains, 
And  the  green  stalk  distends  its  milky  grains  ? 
E'en  in  mid  autumn,  while  the  jocund  hind 
Bade  the  gay  field  the  gather'd  harvest  bind, 
Oft  have  I  seen  the  war  of  winds  contend, 
And  prone  on  earth  th'  infuriate  storm  descend— 
Waste,  far  and  wide,  and  by  the  roots  uptorn, 
The  heavy  harvest  sweep  through  ether  borne ! 
While  in  dark  eddies,  as  the  whirlwind  past, 
The  straw  and  stubble  flew  before  the  blast. 
16 


362  WIND      AND      CLOUD. 

Column  on  column  p'rest  in  close  array, 

Dark  tempests  thicken  o'er  the  watery  way. 

Heaven  poured  in  torrents,  rushes  on  the  plain, 

And  with  wide  deluge  sweeps  the  floating  grain  ; 

The  dikes  o'erflow,  the  flooded  channels  roar, 

Vexed  ocean's  foaming  billows  rock  the  shore : 

The  Thunderer,  thron'd  in  clouds,  with  darkness  crown'd. 

Bares  his  red  arm,  and  flashes  lightnings  round. 

The  beasts  are  fled ;  earth  rocks  from  pole  to  pole — 

Fear  walks  the  world,  and  bows  th'  astonished  soul ; 

Jove  rides  with  fiery  bolt  Ceraunia's  brow, 

Or  Athos  blazing  'mid  eternal  snow. 

The  tempest  darkens,  blasts  redoubled  rave, 

Smite  the  hoarse  wood,  and  lash  the  howling  wave. 

Translation  of  "W.  SOTHEBT. 


TO    THE    RAINBOW. 

Loveliest  of  the  meteor  train, 
Girdle  of  the  summer  rain — 
Finger  of  the  dews  of  air, 
Glowing  vision,  fleet  as  fair  ; 
While  the  evening  shower  retires, 
Kindle  thy  unhurting  fires, 
And  among  the  meadows  near, 
Thy  refulgent  pillar  rear  ; 
Or  amid  the  dark- blue  cloud, 
High  thine  orbed  glories  shroud ; 
Or  the  moisten'd  hills  between, 
Bent  in  mighty  arch  be  seen ; 
Through  whose  sparkling  portals  wide, 
Fiends  of  storm  and  darkness  ride. 

Like  Cheerfulness,  thou  art  wont  to  gaze 
Always  on  the  brightest  blaze ; 
Canst  from  setting  suns  deduce 
Varied  gleams  and  sprightly  hues ; 
And  on  low'ring  gloom  imprint 
Smiling  streaks  of  gayest  tint. 

E.  SOUTHEY,  1774-1850. 


WIND      AND      CLOUD.  363 


THE    WINDY    NIGHT. 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  midnight  tempests  howl ! 

With  a  dreary  voice,  like  the  dismal  tune 
Of  wolves  that  bay  at  the  desert  moon ; 

Or  whistle  and  shriek 

Through  limbs  that  creek, 

"Tu-who!  Tu-whit!" 

They  cry  and  flit, 
"  Tu-whit !  Tu-who !"  like  the  solemn  owl ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
Sweep  the  moaning  winds  amain, 

And  wildly  dash 

The  elm  and  ash, 
Clattering  on  the  window  sash, 

With  a  clatter  and  patter, 

Like  hail  and  rain, 

That  well  might  shatter 

The  dusky  pane ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 

Over  the  roof, 
How  the  tempests  swell  and  roar ! 

Though  no  foot  is  astir, 

Though  the  cat  and  the  cur 
Lie  dozing  along  the  kitchen  floor ; 

There  are  feet  of  air 

On  every  stair ! 

Through  every  hall — 

Through  each  gusty  door, 

There's  a  jostle  and  bustle, 

With  a  silken  rustle, 
Like  the  meeting  of  guests  at  a  festival ! 

Alow  and  aloof, 
Over  the  roof, 

How  the  stormy  tempests  swell  !• 
And  make  the  vane 
On  the  spire  complain — 
They  heave  at  the  steeple  with  might  and  main, 


364  WIND      AND      CLOUD. 

And  burst  and  sweep 

Into  the  belfry,  on  the  bell ! 

They  smite  it  so  hard,  and  they  smite  it  so  well, 
That  the  sexton  tosses  his  arms  in  sleep, 

And  dreams  he  is  ringing  a  funeral  knell ' 


T.  B.  BEAD. 


A    SHOWER. 

FROM   COWPBB'B   LETTERS. 

It  has  pleased  God  to  give  us  rain,  without  which  this  part  of  our 
country,  at  least,  must  soon  have  become  a  desert.  The  meadows  have 
been  parched  to  a  January  brown,  and  we  have  foddered  our  cattle  for 
some  time,  as  in  winter.  The  goodness  and  power  of  God  are  never,  I 
believe,  so  universally  acknowledged  as  at  the  end  of  a  long  drought. 
Man  is  naturally  a  self-sufficient  animal,  and  in  all  concerns  that  seem 
to  lie  within  the  sphere  of  his  own  ability  thinks  little  or  not  at  all  of 
the  need  he  always  has  of  protection  and  furtherance  from  above.  But 
he  is  sensible  that  the  clouds  will  not  assemble  at  his  bidding  ;  and  that, 
though  the  clouds  assemble,  they  will  not  fall  in  showers  because  he 
commands  them.  When,  therefore,  at  last  the  blessing  descends,  you 
shall  hear  even  in  the  streets  the  most  irreligious  and  thoughtless  with 
one  voice  exclaim,  "  Thank  God  !"  confessing  themselves  indebted  to  his 
favor,  and  willing,  at  least  so  far  as  words  go,  to  give  Him  the  glory.  I 
can  hardly  doubt,  therefore,  that  the  earth  is  sometimes  parched,  and 
the  crops  endangered,  in  order  that  the  multitude  may  not  want  a  me- 
mento to  whom  they  owe  them,  nor  absolutely  forget  the  power  on  which 
all  depend  for  all  things. 

Letter  to  S.  ROSE,  ESQ.,  June  23,  1T88.  W.  COWPEE,  1731-1800. 


TO    THE    RAINBOW. 

****** 
When  o'er  the  green  undeluged  Earth, 

Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 
How  came  the  World's  gray  fathers  forth 

To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 

And  when  its  yellow  luster  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child, 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God. 

Methinks,  thy  jubilee  to  keep, 
The  first-made  anthem  rang, 


WIND      AND      CLOUD.  365 

On  earth  deliver'd  from  the  deep, 
And  the  first  poet  sang. 

Nor  ever  shall  the  Muse's  eye 

TJnraptur'd  greet  thy  beam ; 
Theme  of  primeval  prophecy, 

Be  still  the  poet's  theme ! 

The  earth  to  thee  her  incense  yields, 

The  lark  thy  welcome  sings, 
When  glittering  in  the  freshen'd  fields, 

The  snowy  mushroom  springs. 

How  glorious  is  thy  girdle  cast 

O'er  mountain,  tower,  and  town, 
Or  mirror'd  in  the  Ocean  vast, 

A  thousand  fathoms  down ! 

As  fresh  in  yon  horizon  dark, 

As  young  thy  beauties  seem, 
As  when  the  eagle  from  the  ark 

First  sported  in  thy  beam. 

For  faithful  to  its  sacred  page, 

Heaven  still  rebuilds  thy  span, 
Nor  lets  the  type  grow  pale  with  age, 

That  first  spoke  peace  to  man. 

TH.  CAMPBELL,  1777-1844. 


THE    HURRICANE. 

I  had  left  the  village  of  Shawaney,  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Ohio,  on 
my  return  to  Henderson,  which  is  also  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  same 
beautiful  stream.  The  weather  was  pleasant,  and  I  thought  not  warmer 
than  usual  at  that  season.  My  horse  was  jogging  quietly  along,  and  my 
thoughts  were  for  once,  at  least,  in  the  course  of  my  life,  entirely  en- 
gaged in  commercial  speculations.  I  had  forded  Highland  Creek,  and 
was  on  the  eve  of  entering  a  tract  of  bottom-land,  or  valley  that  lay  be- 
tween it  and  Canoe  Creek,  when  on  a  sudden  I  remarked  a  great  differ- 
ence in  the  aspect  of  the  heavens.  A  hazy  thickness  had  overspread  the 
country,  and  I  for  some  time  expected  an  earthquake,  but  my  horse  ex- 
hibited no  propensity  to  stop  and  prepare  for  such  an  occurrence.  I  had 
nearly  arrived  at  the  verge  of  the  valley,  when  I  thought  fit  to  stop  near 
asm  a  brook,  and  dismounted  to  quench  the  thirst  which  had  come 
upon  me. 

I  was  leaning  on  my  knees,  with  my  lips  about  to  touch  the  water, 


366  WIND      AND      CLOUD. 

when,  from  my  proximity  to  the  earth,  I  heard  a  distant  murmuring 
sound  of  an  extraordinary  nature ;  I  drank,  however,  and  as  I  rose  on 
my  feet,  looked  toward  the  southwest,  where  I  observed  a  yellowish, 
oval  spot,  the  appearance  of  which  was  quite  new  to  me.  Little  time 
was  left  me  for  consideration,  as  the  next  moment  a  smart  breeze  began 
to  agitate  the  taller  trees.  It  increased  to  an  unexpected  height,  and 
already  the  smaller  branches  and  twigs  were  seen  falling  in  a  slanting 
direction  toward  the  ground.  Two  minutes  had  scarcely  elapsed,  when 
the  whole  forest  before  me  was  in  fearful  motion.  Here  and  there, 
where  one  tree  pressed  against  another,  a  creaking  noise  was  produced, 
similar  to  that  occasioned  by  the  violent  gusts  which  sometimes  sweep 
over  the  country.  Turning  instinctively  toward  the  direction  from 
which  the  wind  blew,  I  saw,  to  my  great  astonishment,  that  the  noblest 
trees  of  the  forest  bent  their  lofty  heads  for  a  while,  and,  unable  to  stand 
against  the  blast,  were  falling  into  pieces.  First,  the  branches  were 
broken  off  with  a  crackling  noise ;  then  went  the  upper  part  of  the  massy 
trunks,  and  in  many  places  whole  trees  of  gigantic  size  were  falling  en- 
tire to  the  ground.  So  rapid  was  the  progress  of  the  storm,  that  before 
I  could  think  of  taking  measures  to  insure  my  safety,  the  hurricane  was 
passing  opposite  to  the  place  where  I  stood.  Never  can  I  forget  the 
scene  which  at  that  moment  presented  itself.  The  tops  of  the  trees  were 
seen  moving  in  the  strangest  manner,  in  the  central  current  of  the  tem- 
pest, which  carried  along  with  it  a  mingled  mass  of  twigs  and  foliage, 
that  completely  obscured  the  view.  Some  of  the  largest  trees  were  seen 
bending  and  writhing  under  the  gale ;  others  suddenly  snapped  across, 
and  many,  after  a  momentary  resistance,  fell  uprooted  to  the  earth. 
The  mass  of  branches,  twigs,  foliage,  and  dust  that  moved  through  the 
air,  was  whirled  onward  like  a  cloud  of  feathers,  and,  on  passing,  dis- 
closed a  wide  space  filled  with  fallen  trees,  naked  stumps,  and  heaps  of 
shapeless  ruins,  which  marked  the  path  of  the  tempest.  This  space  was 
about  a  fourth  of  a  mile  in  breadth,  and  to  my  imagination  resembled 
the  dried-up  bed  of  the  Mississippi,  with  its  thousands  of  planters  and 
sawyers  strewed  in  the  sand,  and  inclined  in  various  degrees.  The 
horrible  noise  resembled  that  of  the  great  cataracts  of  Niagara  ;  and  as 
it  howled  along  in  the  track  of  the  desolating  tempest,  produced  a  feel- 
ing in  my  mind  which  it  is  impossible  to  describe. 

The  principal  force  of  the  hurricane  was  now  over,  although  millions 
of  twigs  and  small  branches,  that  had  been  brought  from  a  great  dis- 
tance, were  seen  following  the  blast,  as  if  drawn  onward  by  some  mys- 
terious power.  They  even  floated  in  the  air  for  some  hours  after,  as  if 
supported  by  the  thick  mass  of  dust  that  rose  high  above  the  ground. 
The  sky  had  now  a  greenish,  lurid  hue,  and  an  extremely  disagreeable 
sulphureous  odor  was  diffused  in  the  atmosphere.  I  waited  in  amaze- 
ment, having  sustained  no  material  injury,  until  nature  at  length  re- 
sumed her  wonted  aspect.  For  some  moments  I  felt  undetermined 


WIND      AND      CLOUD.  367 

whether  I  should  return  to  Morgantown,  or  attempt  to  force  my  way 
through  the  wrecks  of  the  tempest.  My  business,  however,  being  of  an 
urgent  nature,  I  ventured  into  the  path  of  the  storm,  and  after  encoun- 
tering innumerable  difficulties,  succeeded  in  crossing  it.  I  was  obliged 
to  lead  my  horse  by  the  bridle  to  enable  him  to  leap  over  the  fallen 
trees,  while  I  scrambled  over  or  under  them  in  the  best  way  I  could— at 
times  so  hemmed  in  by  the  broken  tops  and  tangled  branches,  as  almost 
to  become  desperate.  On  arriving  at  my  house,  I  gave  an  account  of 
what  I  had  seen,  when,  to  my  surprise,  I  was  told  there  had  been  very 
little  wind  in  the  neighborhood,  although  in  the  streets  and  gardens 
many  branches  and  twigs  had  fallen  in  a  manner  which  excited  great 
surprise. 

*  *  *  The  valley  is  yet  a  desolate  place,  overgrown  with  briers 
and  bushes,  thickly  entangled  amid  the  tops  and  trunks  of  the  fallen 
trees,  and  is  the  resort  of  ravenous  animals,  to  which  they  betake  them- 
selves, when  pursued  by  man,  or  after  they  have  committed  their  dep- 
redations on  the  farms  of  the  surrounding  district.  I  have  crossed  the 
path  of  the  storm  at  a  distance  of  a  hundred  miles  from  the  spot  where  I 
witnessed  its  fury,  and  again  four  hundred  miles  farther  off,  in  the  State 
of  Ohio.  Lastly,  I  observed  traces  of  its  ravages  on  the  summits  of  the 
mountains  connected  with  the  Great  Pine  Forest  of  Pennsylvania,  three 
hundred  miles  beyond  the  plaee  last  mentioned.  In  all  these  different 
parts  it  appeared  to  me  not  to  have  exceeded  a  quarter  of  a  mile  in 

breadth. 

J.  J.  AUDUBON. 


THE    RAINBOW. 

A  rainbow  ond  the  sun  breaking  through  cloud. 
Discourage  not  yourselves,  although  you  see 
The  weather  black,  and  storms  prolonged  be. 
What  though  it  fiercely  rains  and  thunders  loud, 
Behold  there  is  a  rainbow  in  the  cloud, 
Wherein  a  trustful  promise  may  be  found, 
That  quite  your  little  worlds  shall  not  be  drown'd. 
The  sunshine  through  the  foggy  mists  appear, 
The  low'ring  sky  begins  again  to  clear ; 
And  though  the  tempest  yet  your  eyes  affright, 
Fair  weather  may  befall  you  long  ere  night. 

Such  comfort  speaks  our  Emblem  unto  those 
Whom  stormy  persecution  dotli  inclose ; 
And  comforts  him,  that  for  the  present  sad, 
With  hopes  that  better  seasons  may  be  had. 
There  is  not  trouble,  sorrow,  nor  distress, 
But  mitigation  hath,  or  some  release. 


368  WIND      AND      CLOUD. 

Long  use  or  time  the  storm  away  will  turn, 
Else  patience  makes  it  better  to  be  borne. 
Yea ;  sorrow's  low'ring  days  will  come  and  go, 
As  well  as  prosp'rous  hours  of  sunshine  do ; 
And  when  'tis  past,  the  pain  that  went  before 
Will  make  the  following  pleasure  seem  the  more. 
For  He  hath  promis'd,  whom  we  may  believe, 
His  blessing  unto  those  that  mourn  and  grieve  ; 
And  that  though  sorrow  much  dejects  their  head, 
In  ev'ry  need  we  shall  be  comforted. 
This  promise  I  believe ;  in  ev'ry  grief 
Perform  it,  Lord,  and  help  my  unbelief. 
So  others  viewing  how  thou  cheerest  me, 
Shall  in  all  sorrows  put  their  trust  in  thee. 

GEOEGB  WITHES,  15SS-1667. 


XXV. 


THE  STOEY  OP  AAEON  THE  BEGGAR. 

FROM   THE   SWEDISH. 

KANQ  AS  lieth  in  Sioni ;  'tis  a  homestead  that  scarce  has  an  equal ; 
Plenteous  in  wood  and  in  corn-fields,  with  rich  grassy  meadows 

and  moorland. 

This  won  my  father,  in  wedding  the  farmer's  fair  daughter ; 
And  here  he  grew  old,  like  a  summer's  eve  calmly  declining. 
From  him  came  the  farm  unto  me ;  and  here,  like  my  father, 
I  spent  the  best  years  of  my  life,  and  dwelt  like  a  king  amid  plenty. 
Servants  I  had ;  men  servants  to  plow  with  my  oxen  ; 
And  maids  in  the  house,  too ;  and  children,  the  joy  of  their  mother 
And  the  hope  of  my  eye,  who  grew  up  like  olive-plants  round  us. 
Thus  sowing  and  reaping  in  comfort,  from  season  to  season  abode  I, 
Envied  by  many,  but  having  the  good- will  of  all  men. 
At  length  came  misfortune,  and  so  put  an  end  to  my  gladness. 
The  frost  of  one  night  destroyed  all  my  yet  unreaped  harvest, 
Wolves  killed  my  cattle ;  and  thus  passed  a  winter  of  sorrow. 
Again  I  sowed  rye-crops,  looking  for  profit  in  autumn  ; 

16* 


370  MEDLEY. 

And  again  the  rye  failed,  for  again  was  the  early  ear  frosted. 

I  had  men  and  maid  servants  no  longer.     I  could  not  pay  land-dues. 

Bread  we  had  none ;  bark  dried  in  the  oven  sustained  us. 

So  passed  the  time ;  and  as  long  as  the  milch-kine  were  spared  us. 

And  we  had  their  milk,  the  bark-bread  for  us  was  sufficient. 

Thus  came  and  went  Christmas ;  and  still  we  lived  on,  although  famished. 

At  length,  when  returning  one  morning  with  bark  on  my  shoulder, 

I  was  met  on  the  threshold  by  strangers — and  thus  one  accosts  me  : 

"  Friend,  either  pay  that  thou  owest,  or  all  that  thou  hast  will  be  seized 

on." 

Amazed,  I  made  answer :  "  Good  sir,  yet  awhile  have  thou  patience, 
And  I  will  pay  all,  Heaven  helping  !    We  now  are  sustained 
Alone  on  bark  bread !" 

Again  they  turned  into  the  house,  no  answer  vouchsafing, 
Then  hastily  stripped  from  the  walls  our  poor  store  of  household  utensils, 
Seized  all  that  remained  of  our  clothing,  and  carried  them  off  to  their 

sledge. 

Weeping,  my  wife  lay,  my  excellent  wife,  on  her  straw  bed, 
Watching  in  silence  the  men,  and  all  the  while  soothing  the  baby, 
Which  lay  on  her  bosom  new-born,  and  kept  up  a  wailing  of  sorrow. 
I  followed  them  out  as  they  bore  thence  the  last  of  our  chattels, 
As  stern  in  my  mood  as  the  pine  when  his  axe  at  its  roots  lays  the  wood- 
man. 

They  cast  up  the  worth  of  their  plunder,  and  said  that  it  reached  not 
The  half  of  the  sum  that  they  needed.     Again  spake  the  bailiff : 
"  Friend,"  said  he,  "  this  doth  not  suffice,  but  thou  hast  much  kine  in 

the  cow-shed." 

Thus  saying,  with  no  more  ado,  they  went  on  to  the  straw-yard, 
Where  stood  the  kine  under  their  shelter  lowing  for  fodder. 
They  loosened  and  drove  them  all  forth,  one  after  another  ; 
Still  forcing  them  on  by  compulsion,  unwilling  to  leave  their  old  home- 
stead. 

In  this  way  six  cows  were  secured ;  the  seventh,  a  starveling, 
Dead  rather  than  living,  they  left  me.     Thus  all  that  I  had  was  dis- 
trained on. 

I  spake  not ;  in  dreary  despondence  re-crossing  my  threshold, 
And  thus  from  the  bed  of  her  sorrow  a  low  voice  of  misery  accosts  me ; 
"  Look  around  if  thou  canst  not  find  aught  for  my  hunger's  appeasing ; 
How  sweet  were  a  draught  of  new  milk,  for  I  thirst,  and  the  babe  find- 

eth  nothing !" 

Thus  spake  she  ;  a  darkness  came  over  my  eyesight,  and  sorrowing 
I  went  to  the  cow-shed,  where  stood  the  lean,  famishing  creature, 
And  chewed  a  poor  mouthful  of  rye-straw.    I  pressed  the  dry  udder, 
For  milk  trying  vainly,  for  not  a  drop  answered  the  pressure. 
Despairing,  yet  dreading  a  failure,  yet  harder  assayed  I, 


MEDLEY.  371 

And  blood  flowed,  a  crimson  stream,  staining  the  pail  of  the  milker. 
As  fierce  as  the  mother-bear,  struck  by  the  spear  of  the  hunter, 
Rushed  I  indoors,  and  took  up  a  loaf,  which  I  sundered 
By  the  stroke  of  the  axe,  and  black  flew  the  bark-fragments  round  me. 
One  morsel  I  gave  to  my  wife,  saying  :  "  Take  it ;  'tis  all  that  is  left  us ; 
Eat,  and  give  suck  to  the  infant."     She  took  the  dry  morsel ; 
She  turned  it  about  in  her  hand,  looked  at  it,  then  pressing 
The  babe  to  her  bosom,  she  swooning,  fell  back  on  her  pillow. 

I  buckled  the  skates  on  my  feet,  and  sped  in  all  haste  to  the  neighbor 
Who  dwelt  nearest  to  me,  and  prayed  for  some  help  in  my  sorrow 
He  willingly  gave  it,  dividing  his  all  as  a  brother. 
Again  I  sped  back  with  a  pailful  of  milk  on  my  shoulder ; 
But  on  reaching  my  threshold  a  cry  of  sad  sorrow  assailed  me ; 
And  entering,  I  saw  by  the  bedside  my  two  eldest  children, 
Frantic  with  terror,  and  trying  to  waken  their  mother ; 
Eut  silent  and  motionless  lay  she,  a  ghastly  death  pallor 
Spread  over  her  face,  and  the  blackness  of  night  her  eyes  vailing. 

This  was  the  crown  of  our  sorrow — bereaved  was  the  beautiful  Kangas. 
And  ere  long,  as  if  Heaven-abandoned,  I  left  it  forever, 
And,  taking  my  staff  in  my  hand  went  forth,  drawing  my  children 
On  a  light  sledge  behind  me,  and  wandered  gray-headed  a  beggar. 
From  parish  to  parish  we  wandered,  and  God  and  good  Christians  sus- 
tained us. 

But  Time  doth  lighten  most  sorrows  ;  and  now  amid  strangers 
My  children  are  blooming  afresh  ;  for  myself  it  contents  me 
If  only  my  bread  I  can  win,  and  playing  my  jew's-harp 
Can  sit  'neath  the  trees  in  the  sunshine,  and  sing  like  a  cricket. 
******** 

Translation  of  M.  Hownr.  JOHANN  LUDWIG  KUNKBEBG,  a  Finlander. 

ELEGY. 


0  thou  field !  thou  clean  and  level  field  ! 
0  thou  plain  !  so  far  and  wide  around  ! 
Level  field,  dressed  up  with  every  thing, 
Every  thing  ;  with  sky-blue  flowerets  small, 
Fresh  green  grass,  and  bushes  thick  with  leaves ; 
But  defaced  by  one  thing,  but  by  one ! 

For  in  thy  very  middle  stands  a  broom, 
On  the  broom  a  young  gray  engle  sits, 
And  he  butchers  wild  a  raven  black, 
Sucks  the  raven's  heart-blood,  glowing  hot, 
Drenches  with  it  too  the  moistened  earth. 


372  MEDLEY. 


Ah,  black  raven,  youth  so  good  and  brave, 
Thy  destroyer  is  the  eagle  gray  ! 

Not  a  swallow  'tis,  that  hovering  clings, 
Hovering  clings  to  her  warm  little  nest ; 
To  the  murdered  son  the  mother  clings, 
And  her  tears  fall  like  the  rushing  stream, 
And  his  sister's  like  the  flowing  rill ; 
Like  the  dew  the  tears  fall  of  his  love — 
When  the  sun  shines  it  dries  up  the  dew  ! 

Translated  by  TALVI. 


TAKE  THY  OLD  CLOAKE  ABOUT  THEE.* 

This  winter  weather — itt  waxeth  cold, 

And  frost  doth  freese  on  every  hill, 
And  Boreas  blows  his  blastes  so  cold 

That  all  our  cattell  are  like  to  spill ; 
Bell,  my  wife,  who  loves  no  strife, 

Shee  sayd  unto  me  quietlye, 
Rise  up,  and  save  cowe  Crumbocke's  life — 

Man,  put  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He.  0  Bell,  why  dost  thou  flyte  and  scorne  ? 

Thou  kenst  my  cloake  is  very  thin, 
Itt  is  soe  bare  and  overworne 

A  cricke  he  thereon  can  not  renn  ; 
Then  He  no  longer  borrowe  nor  lend, 

For  once  He  new  apparelled  bee ; 
To-morrow  He  to  towne,  and  spend, 

For  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She.  Cow  Crumbocke  is  a  very  good  cowe, 

She  ha  beene  alwayes  true  to  the  payle, 
Shee  has  helpt  us  to  butter  and  cheese,  I  trow, 

And  other  things  she  will  not  fayle, 
I  wold  be  loth  to  see  her  pine, 

Good  husbande,  council  take  of  mee, 
It  is  not  for  us  to  goe  so  fine — 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He.  My  cloake,  it  was  a  very  good  cloake, 

Itt  hath  been  alwayes  true  to  the  weare, 

*  See  Othello,  Act  ii.,  Scene  8. 


MEDLEY.  373 

But  now  it  is  not  worth  a  groate ; 

I  have  had  itt  four- and- forty  yeare. 
Sometime  it  was  of  cloth  in  graine, 

'Tis  now  but  a  sigh  clout  as  you  may  see. 
It  will  neither  hold  nor  winde  nor  raine — 

And  He  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She.  It  is  fbur-and-forty  yeeres  agoe 

Since  the  one  of  us  the  other  did  ken, 
And  we  have  had  betwixt  us  towe 

Of  children  either  nine  or  ten  ; 
We  have  brought  them  up  to  women  and  men, 

In  the  fere  of  God  I  trowe  they  bee, 
And  why  wilt  thou  thyself  misken — 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He.  0  Bell,  my  wiffe,  why  dost  thou  floute, 

Now  is  now,  and  then  was  then  ; 
Seeke  now  all  the  world  throughout, 

Thou  kenst  not  clownes  from  gentlemen, 
They  are  cladd  in  blacke,  greene,  yellowe,  or  gray, 

Soe  far  above  their  owne  degree — 
Once  in  my  life  lie  do  as  they, 

For  lie  have  a  new  cloake  about  mee. 

She.  King  Stephen  was  a  worthy  peere, 

His  breeches  cost  him  but  a  crowne, 
He  held  them  sixpence  all  too  deere, 

Therefore  he  call'd  the  tailor  loon. 
He  was  a  wight  of  high  renowne, 

And  thouse  but  of  a  low  degree — 
Its  pride  that  putts  this  countrye  downe — 

Man,  take  thy  old  cloake  about  thee. 

He.  Bell,  my  wife,  she  loves  not  strife, 
Yet  she  will  lead  me  if  she  can ; 
And  oft  to  live  a  quiet  life 

I'm  forced  to  yield  though  I  bee  good-man. 
Itt's  not  for  a  man  with  a  woman  to  threepe, 

Unless  he  first  give  o'er  the  plea : 
As  we  began  sae  will  wee  leave — 

And  lie  take  my  old  cloake  about  mee. 

Anonymous— 16th  century. 


374  MEDLEY. 


THE    COUNTRY    LASSE. 


Although  I  am  a  country  lass, 

A  lofty  mind  I  bear- a, 
I  think  myself  as  good  as  those 

That  gay  apparel  wear-a. 
My  coat  is  made  of  homely  gray, 

Yet  is  my  skin  as  soft-a 
As  those  that  with  the  chiefest  -wines 

Do  bathe  their  bodies  oft- a. 
Down,  down,  derry,  derry  down ; 

Heigh,  downa,  downa,  downa ; 
A  derry,  derry,  derry,  derry  down, 

Heigh  down  a  derry  ! 

What  though  I  keep  my  father's  sheep— 

A  thing  that  must  be  done-a, 
A  garland  of  the  fairest  flowers 

Shall  shroud  me  from  the  sun- a  ; 
And  when  I  see  them  feeding  be, 

Where  grass  and  flowers  spring, 
Close  by  a  crystal  fountain  side 

I  sit  me  down  and  sing-a. 

Dame  Nature  crowns  us  with  delight, 

Surpassing  court  or  city  ; 
We  pleasures  take  from  morn  to  night, 

In  sports  and  pastimes  pretty. 
Your  city  dames  in  coaches  ride 

Abroad  for  recreation ; 
We  country  lasses  hate  their  pride, 

And  keep  the  country  fashion. 

Your  city  wives  lead  wanton  lives, 

And  if  they  come  i'  the  country, 
They  are  so  proud,  that  each  one  strives 

For  to  out- brave  our  gentry. 
We  country  lasses  lowly  be, 

For  seat  nor  wall  we  strive  not ; 
We  are  content  with  our  degree — 

Our  debtors  we  despise  not. 


MEDLEY.  375 

I  care  not  for  the  fan  or  mask, 

When  Titan's  heat  reflecteth ; 
A  homely  hat  is  all  I  ask, 

Which  well  my  face  protecteth ; 
Yet  I  am  in  my  country  guise 

Esteemed  lasse  as  pretty 
As  those  that  every  day  devise 

New  shapes  in  court  or  city. 

In  every  season  of  the  year 

I  undergo  my  labor  ; 
No  shower  nor  wind  at  all  I  fear, 

My  limbs  I  do  not  favor. 
If  summer's  heat  my  beauty  stain, 

It  makes  me  ne'er  the  sicker, 
Sith  I  can  wash  it  off  again 

With  a  cup  of  Christmas  liquor. 

From  a  Hack-letter  copy  in  the  Assigns  of  Symcocke. 


HARVEST    SONG, 

FBOM   THR   GKRMAN. 

Sickles  sound ; 
On  the  ground 
Fast  the  ripe  ears  fall ; 
Every  maiden's  bonnet 
Has  blue  blossoms  on  it — 
Joy  is  over  all. 

Sickles  ring, 
Maidens  sing 
To  the  sickle's  sound ; 
Till  the  moon  is  beaming, 
And  the  stubble  gleaming, 
Harvest  songs  go  round. 

All  are  springing, 
All  are  singing 
Every  lisping  thing ; 
Man  and  master  meat 
From  one  dish  they  eat ; 
Each  is  now  a  king. 

Hans  and  Michael 
Whet  the  sickle, 


376  MEDLEY. 

Piping  merrily. 
Now  they  mow ;  each  maiden, 
Soon  with  sheaves  is  laden, 

Busy  as  a  bee  ! 

Now  the  blisses, 

Now  the  kisses — 

Now  the  wit  doth  flow 

Till  the  beer  is  out ; 

Then  with  song  and  shout, 

Hence  they  go,  yo  ho  ! 
Translation  of  G.  T.  BROOKS.  LTJDWIG  HOLTT,  1T48-17T6. 


SONG. 

FROM   THE   SPANISH. 

I  ne'er  on  the  border 

Saw  girl  fair  as  Rosa, 
The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 

Once  making  a  journey 

To  Santa  Maria 
Of  Calataveno, 

From  weary  desire 
Of  sleep,  down  a  valley 

I  strayed,  where  young  Rosa 
I  saw,  the  milk-maiden 

Of  lone  Finojosa. 

In  a  pleasant  green  meadow, 

'Midst  roses  and  grasses, 
Her  herd  she  was  tending, 

With  other  fair  lasses ; 
So  lovely  her  aspect, 

I  could  not  suppose  her 
A  simple  milk-maiden 

Of  rude  Finojosa. 

I  think  not  primroses 

Have  half  her  smile's  sweetness, 
Or  mild,  modest  beauty ; 

I  speak  with  discreetness. 


MEDLEY.  377 

0  had  I  beforehand 

But  known  of  this  Rosa, 
The  lovely  milk-maiden 
Of  fair  Finojosa : 

Her  very  great  beauty 

*Had  not  so  subdued, 
Because  it  had  left  me, 

To  do  as  I  would ! 

1  have  said  more,  0  fair  one, 
By  learning  'twas  Ros:i, 

The  charming  milk-maiden 

Of  sweet  Finojosa. 
Translation  of  T.  ROSCOE.  LOPE  DE  MENDOZ.V,  l/iOS-l-iro 


SERVIAN 

SONO    OF    THK    PKABANT'S    WIFE. 

Come,  companion,  let  us  hurry, 
That  we  may  be  early  home ; 
For  my  mother-in-law  is  cross ! 
Only  yestreen  she  accused  me — 
Said  that  I  had  beat  my  husband, 
When,  poor  soul,  I  had  not  touched  him ; 
Only  bid  him  wash  the  dishes, 
And  he  would  not  wash  the  dishes ; 
Threw,  then,  at  his  head  the  pitcher; 
Knocked  a  hole  in  head  and  pitcher  ; 
For  the  head  I  do  not  care  much  ; 
But  I  care  much  for  the  pitcher, 
As  I  paid  for  it  right  dearly — 
Paid  for  it  with  one  wild  apple — 
Yes,  and  half  a  one  besides. 

Transit  fat  ly  TALVI. 


LINES. 

She  dwelt  among  the  untrodden  ways, 

Beside  the  springs  of  Dove ; 
A  maid  whom  there  were  none  to  praise. 

A  in  I  very  few  to  love: 


378  MEDLEY. 

A  violet  by  a  mossy  stone, 
Half  hidden  from  the  eye  ! 

Fair  as  a  star,  when  only  one 
Is  shining  in  the  sky. 


She  lived  unknown — and  few  could  know 

When  Lucy  ceased  to  be  ;    • 
But  she  is  in  her  grave,  and  oh  ! 

The  difference  to  me  !  , 

WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH,  1770-1850. 


THE  BALADE  OF  THE  SHEPHARDE, 


I  know  that  God  hath  formed  me, 
And  made  me  to  his  own  likenesse  : 
I  know  that  he  hath  given  to  me  truly 
Soul  and  body — wit  and  knowledge  givis. 
I  know  that  by  right  wise  true  balance, 
After  my  deeds  judged  shall  I  be. 
I  know  much,  but  I  wot  not  the  variance, 
To  understand  whereof  cometh  my  folly. 
I  know  full  well  that  I  shall  die, 
And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 

I  know  in  what  poverty, 
Born  a  child  this  earth  above. 
I  know  that  God  hath  lent  to  me 
Abundance  of  goods  to  my  behoof. 
I  know  that  riches  can  me  not  save, 
And  with  me  I  shall  bear  none  away. 
I  know  the  more  good  I  have, 
The  loather  I  shall  be  to  die. 
I  know  all  this  faithfully, 
And  yet  my  life  amend  not  I. 

I  know  that  I  have  passed 

Great  part  of  my  days  with  joy  and  pleasaunce. 

I  know  that  I  have  gathered 

Sins,  and  also  do  little  penance. 

I  know  that  by  ignorance, 

To  excuse  me  there  is  no  art. 

I  know  that  once  shall  be 


MEDLEY 


When  my  soul  shall  depart — 

That  I  shall  wish  that  I  had  mended  me. 

I  know  there  is  no  remedy, 

And  therefore  my  life  amend  I  will ! 

EICIIAED  PYNSOX,  16th  centu.-y. 


XXVI. 


OEVERAL  translations  from  pleasing  verses  of  Charles, 
^  Duke  of  Orleans,  have  been  inserted  in  this  volume  ;  and 
as  the  American  reader  is  seldom  very  familiar  with  French 
poets,  we  shall  venture  to  give  a  little  sketch  of  their  author. 
Charles  d'Orleans  was  born  in  1391,  and  his  life  was  highly 
colored  by  the  vicissitudes  of  that  stormy  period.  He  was  a 
nephew  of  the  unhappy  Charles  VI.,  and  was  still  a  mere  lad 
when,  in  1406,  his  father  Louis,  Duke  of  Orleans,  and  regent 
of  the  kingdom,  was  assassinated  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  an 
event  which  placed  the  youth  at  once  in  nominal  possession 
of  his  father's  duchy.  The  crime  was  laid  at'  the  door  of 
John  the  Fearless,  Duke  of  Burgundy  ;  and  the  widowed 
princess,  Valentine  Visconti,  urged  doubtless  by  the  nobles  of 
her  political  party,  sought  every  possible  means  of  bringing 
the  offender  to  punishment ;  a  criminal  suit,  extraordinary  in 
its  details,  stands  recorded  in  the  French  annals  in  connection 


MEDLEY.  381 

with  this  circumstance.  In  order  to  excite  the  public  sym- 
pathies to  the  utmost,  the  widowed  duchess,  with  her  chil- 
dren, appeared  repeatedly  in  the  streets,  and  courts  of  justice, 
in  gloomy  mourning  procession.  On  all  these  occasions  the 
young  duke  held  a  prominent  position  at  the  side  of  his  Ital- 
ian mother.  His  father's  murderer  and  kinsman,  however, 
was  too  powerful  for  legal  punishment ;  a  few  years  later 
he  fell  under  the  dagger  of  the  assassin  on  the  bridge  of 
Montereau,  and  in  the  presence  of  the  dauphin.  The  conse- 
quences of  these  crimes  were  ruinous  to  France  ;  the  power- 
ful house  of  Burgundy,  after  the  murder  of  Duke  John,  rose- 
in  open  rebellion,  and  Henry  V.  of  England,  through  their 
means,  obtained  what  without  them  he  would  scarcely  have 
dared  seriously  to  aim  at — possession  of  the  throne  of  St. 
Louis.  On  the  famous  field  of  Agincourt,  Charles  d'Orleans, 
sharing  the  fate  of  so  many  others,  was  made  prisoner.  He 
was  immediately  sent  to  England,  where  his  captivity  and 
exile  were  prolonged  through  a  period  of  nearly  five  and 
twenty  years,  and  varied  only  by  removals  from  one  strong- 
hold to  another.  During  part  of  that  time  he  was  confined  in 
Pontrefact  Castle,  where  his  cousin,  Queen  Katherine,  the 
wife  of  Henry  V.,  paid  him  a  visit  in  one  of  her  progresses. 
Captivity,  as  in  the  case  of  several  other  royal  and  princely 
exiles,  led  him  to  seek  consolation  and  amusement  from 
poetical  composition.  His  verses  are  very  pleasing  indeed, 
full  of  the  simplicity  of  natural  feeling,  with  much  ease  and 
grace  of  expression.  Absence  does  not  appear  to  have  di- 
minished his  love  of  country  ;  he  cherished  a  longing  desire  to 
return  to  France,  and  envied,  as  he  tells  us,  even  the  birds 
which  were  flying  toward  his  native  shores.  At  length,  after 
a  captivity  extending  over  half  a  lifetime,  he  was  liberated, 
and  returned  to  France.  Having  some  claims  upon  the  Duchy 
of  Milan,  through  his  mother,  a  Visconti,  he  raised  troops,  not 
iong  after  his  return  to  Paris,  and  led  an  expedition  into  Italy, 
but  failed  to  conquer  the  ducal  crown.  He  was  more  suc- 
cessful as  a  poet  than  as  a  soldier ;  but  he  left,  however, 
a  reputation  superior  to  either  of  these  distinctions,  that 


382  MEDLEY. 

of  a  good  and  honest  man.      His  death  took  place  in  the 
year  1461. 

The  Duke  of  Orleans,  who  figures  in  Shakspeare's  drama 
of  Henry  V.  at  the  battle  of  Agincourt,  was  this  same  poet- 
prince.  His  character  is  not  unworthily  sketched  in  the 
play,  where  he  appears  loyal  and  brave,  superior  to  the  other 
French  princes  figuring  in  the  same  scenes.  When  the 
French  are  already  in  full  flight,  he  exclaims : 

"  We  are  enough  yet  living  in  the  field 
To  smother  np  the  English  in  our  throngs, 
If  any  order  might  be  thought  upon." 

To  which  the  Duke  of  Bourbon  is  made  to  reply,  very  ex- 
pressively : 

"  The  devil  take  order  now  !    I'll  to  the  throng ; 
Let  life  be  short,  else  shame  will  be  too  long." 

Shakspeare  was  probably  not  aware  that  the  duke  was  a 
poet,  else  he  would  doubtless  have  made  an  allusion  to  the 
fact  in  Act  iii.,  Scene  vii.,  where  some  pleasantry  occurs 
between  the  dauphin  and  his  companions  regarding  a  sonnet 
he  had  himself  written  to  his  horse. 


SONG. 


FROM    THK   FRENCH. 


I  stood  upon  the  wild  sea- shore, 

And  marked  the  wide  expanse ; 
My  straining  eyes  were  turned  once  more 

To  long-loved  distant  France  : 
I  saw  the  sea-bird  hurry  by 

Along  the  waters  blue ; 
I  saw  her  wheel  amid  the  sky, 
And  mock  my  tearful,  eager  eye, 

That  would  her  flight  pursue. 

Onward  she  darts,  secure  and  free, 
And  wings  her  rapid  course  to  thee ! 
0  that  her  wing  were  mine  to  soar, 
And  reach  thy  lovely  land  once  more  ! 


MEDLEY.  383 

0  Heaven  !    It  were  enough  to  die 

In  my  own,  my  native  home — 
One  hour  of  blessed  liberty 

Were  worth  whole  years  to  come ! 
Translation  of  Miss  COSTKLLO.  CHARLES,  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS,  1891-1467. 


SONG    OF    COLMA 


It  is  night,  I  am  alone ;  forlorn  on  the  hill  of  storms.  The  wind  is 
heard  on  the  mountain,  The  torrent  pours  down  the  rock.  No  hut  re- 
ceives me  from  the  rain;  forlorn  on  the  hill  of  winds! 

Rise,  moon  !  from  behind  thy  clouds.  Stars  of  the  night,  arise !  Lead 
me,  some  light,  to  the  place  where  my  love  rests  from  the  chase  alone  ! 
his  bow  near  him  unstrung  ;  his  dogs  panting  'round  him.  But  here  I 
must  sit  alone  by  the  rock  of  the  mossy  stream.  The  stream  and  the 
wind  roar  aloud.  I  hear  not  the  voice  of  my  love !  Why  delays  my 
Salgar — why  the  chief  of  the  hill  his  promise  ?  Here  is  the  rock,  and 
there  the  tree  !  Here  is  the  roaring  stream  !  Thou  didst  promise  with 
night  to  be  here.  Ah !  whither  is  Salgar  gone  ?  With  thee  I  would  fly 
from  my  father ;  with  thee  from  my  brother  of  pride.  Our  race  have 
long  been  foes ;  we  are  not  foes,  0  Salgar ! 

Cease  a  little  while,  0  wind  !  Stream,  be  thou  silent  awhile  !  Let  my 
voice  be  heard  around.  Let  my  wanderer  hear  me  !  Salgar,  it  is  Col- 
ma  who  calls.  Here  is  the  tree  and  the  rock.  Salgar,  my  love  !  I  am 
here.  Why  delayest  thou  thy  coming  ?  Lo,  the  calm  moon  comes  forth. 
The  flood  is  bright  in  the  vale.  The  rocks  are  gray  on  the  steep ;  I  see 
him  not  on  the  brow.  His  dogs  come  not  before  him  with  tidings  of  his 
near  approach.  Here  I  must  sit  alone  ! 

Who  lie  on  the  heath  beside  me  ?  Are  they  my  love,  and  my  brother  ? 
Speak  to  me,  0  my  friends !  To  Colma  they  give  no  reply.  Speak  to 
me  ;  I  am  alone !  My  soul  is  tormented  with  fears !  Ah  !  they  are 
dead  !  Their  swords  are  red  from  the  fight.  0  my  brother !  my  broth- 
er !  why  hast  thou  slain  my  Salgar  ?  Why,  0  Salgar,  hast  thou  slain 
my  brother  ?  Dear  were  ye  both  to  me !  What  shall  I  say  in  your 
praise  ?  Thou  wert  fair  on  the  hill  among  thousands  !  He  was  terrible 
in  the  fight !  Speak  to  me  ;  hear  my  voice ;  hear  me,  sons  of  my  love  ! 
They  are  silent ;  silent  forever !  Cold,  cold  are  their  breasts  of  clay  ! 
Oh  !  from  the  rock  on  the  hill — from  the  top  of  the  windy  steep,  speak, 
ye  ghosts  of  the  dead  !  speak,  I  will  not  be  afraid !  Whither  are  ye  gone 
to  rest  ?  In  what  cave  of  the  hill  shall  I  find  the  departed  ?  No  feeble 
voice  is  on  the  gale  ;  no  answer  half- drowned  in  the  storm  ! 

I  sit  in  my  grief;  I  wait  for  morning  in  my  tears  !    Rear  the  tomb, 


384  MEDLEY. 

ye  friends  of  the  dead.  Close  it  not  till  Colma  come.  My  life  flies  away 
like  a  dream ;  why  should  I  stay  behind  ?  Here  shall  I  rest  with  my 
friends,  by  the  stream  of  the  sounding  rock.  When  night  comes  on  the 
hill ;  when  the  loud  winds  arise,  my  ghost  shall  stand  in  the  blast,  and 
mourn  the  death  of  my  friends.  The  hunter  shall  hear  from  his  booth. 
He  shall  fear  but  love  my  voice  !  For  sweet  shall  my  voice  be  for  my 
friends  :  pleasant  were  her  friends  to  Colma  ! 

JAMES  MACPIIEKSON,  1733-1 79  G. 


SONG. 

FROM  "  CYNTHIA'S  BEVELS." 

Slow,  slow,  fresh  fount,  keep  time  with  my  salt  tears ; 

Yet  slower,  yet,  0  faintly,  gentle  springs  ! 
List  to  the  heavy  part  the  music  bears ; 
Woe  weeps  out  her  division  when  she  sings. 
Droop  herbs  and  flowers, 
Fall  grief  in  showers — 
Our  beauties  are  not  ours. 

0  I  could  still, 
Like  melting  snow  upon  some  craggy  hill, 

Drop,  drop,  drop,  drop, 
Since  summer's  pride  is  now  a  withered  daffodil. 

BEN  JONSON,  1574-1637. 


LINES. 

"  0  Mary,  go  and  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
And  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee  ;" 
The  western  wind  was  wild  and  dark  wi'  foam, 
And  all  alone  went  she. 

The  creeping  tide  came  up  along  the  sand, 
And  o'er,  and  o'er  the  sand, 
And  'round,  and  'round  the  sand, 
As  far  as  eye  could  see  ; 

The  blinding  mist  came  down  and  hid  the  land, 
And  never  home  came  she. 

"0  is  it  weed,  or  fish,  or  floating  hair — 
A  tress  o'  golden  hair — 
0'  drowned  maiden's  hair, 


MEDLEY.  385 

Above  the  nets  at  sea  ? 
Was  never  salmon  yet  that  shone  so  fair, 
Among  the  stakes  on"  Dee  !" 

They  rowed  her  in  across  the  rolling  foam, 
The  cruel,  crawling  foam, 
The  cruel,  hungry  foam, 
To  her  grave  beside  the  sea. 

But  still  the  boatmen  hear  her  call  the  cattle  home, 
Across  the  sands  o'  Dee. 

C.   KlMJSLEY. 


LETTER    OF    ST.    BASIL,    DESCRIBING    HIS    HER- 
MITAGE. 

TO    ST.    QRKOORY   NA7.1AXX.KN. 

I  believe  I  may  at  last  natter  myself  with  having  found  the  end  of  my 
wanderings.  The  hopes  of  being  united  with  thee— or,  I  should  rather 
say,  my  dreams,  for  hopes  have  been  justly  termed  the  waking  dreams 
of  men — have  remained  unfulfilled.  God  has  suffered  me  to  find  a  place, 
such  as  has  often  flitted  before  our  imaginations ;  for  that  which  fancy 
has  shown  us  from  afar  is  now  made  manifest  to  me.  A  high  mountain, 
clothed  with  thick  woods,  is  watered  to  the  north  by  fresh  and  ever- 
flowing  streams.  At  its  foot  lies  an  extended  plain,  rendered  fruitful 
by  the  vapors  with  which  it  is  moistened.  The  surrounding  forest 
crowded  with  trees  of  different  kinds,  incloses  one  as  in  a  s-trong  for- 
tress. This  wilderness  is  bounded  by  two  deep  ravines ;  on  the  one  side 
the  river,  rushing  in  foam  down  the  mountain,  forms  an  almost  im- 
passable barrier,  while  on  the  other  all  access  is  impeded  by  a  broad 
mountain-ridge.  My  hut  is  so  situated  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain, 
that  I  can  overlook  the  whole  plain,  and  follow  throughout  its  course  the 
Iris,  which  is  more  beautiful,  and  has  a  more  abundant  body  of  water 
than  the  Strymon,  near  Amphipolis.  The  river  of  my  wilderness,  which 
is  more  impetuous  than  any  other  that  I  know  of,  breaks  against  the 
jutting  rock,  and  throws  itself  foaming  into  the  abyss  below — an  object 
of  admiration  to  the  mountain  wanderer,  and  a  source  of  profit  to  the 
natives  from  the  numerous  fishes  that  are  found  in  its  waters.  Shall  I 
describe  to  thee  the  fructifying  vapors  that  rise  from  the  moist  earth,  01 
the  cool  breezes  wafted  over  the  rippled  face  of  the  waters  ?  Shall  1 
speak  of  the  sweet  song  of  the  birds,  or  of  the  rich  luxuriance  of  the 
flowering  plants  ?  What  charms  me  beyond  all  else  is  the  calm  repose 
of  the  spot.  It  is  only  visited  occasionally  by  huntsmen  ;  for  my  wil- 
derness nourishes  herds  of  deer  and  wild  goats,  but  not  bears  and  wolves. 

17 


386  MEDLEY. 

What  other  spot  could  I  exchange  for  this  ?     Alcmseon,  when  he  had 
found  the  Echinades,  would  not  wander  farther. 

Letter*  of  ST.  BASIL,  329-879. 

When  I  see  every  ledge  of  rock,  every  valley  and  plain,  covered  with 
new-born  verdure,  the  varied  beauty  of  the  trees,  and  the  lilies  at  my 
feet  decked  by  Nature  with  the  double  charms  of  perfume  and  of  color, 
when  in  the  distance  I  see  the  ocean,  toward  which  the  clouds  are  borne 
onward,  my  spirit  is  overpowered  by  a  sadness  not  wholly  devoid  of  en- 
joyment. When  in  autumn  the  fruits  have  passed  away,  the  leaves 
have  fallen,  and  the  branches  of  the  trees,  dried  and  shriveled,  are 
robbed  of  their  leafy  adornments,  we  are  instinctively  led,  amid  the 
everlasting  and  regular  change  in  Nature,  to  feel  the  harmony  of  the 
wondrous  powers  pervading  all  things.  He  who  contemplates  them  with 
the  eye  of  the  soul,  feels  the  littleness  of  man  amid  the  greatness  of  the 
universe. 

ST.  GREGORY  of  Nyssa,  396. 


A    VISION. 


Being  one  day  at  my  window  all  alone, 

So  many  strange  things  happened  me  to  see, 
As  much  it  grieveth  me  to  think  thereon. 

At  my  right  hand  a  hynde  appeared  to  mee, 
So  faire  as  mote  the  greatest  god  delite  ; 

Two  eager  dogs  did  her  pursue  in  chase, 
Of  which  the  one  was  blacke,  the  other  white ; 

With  deadly  force,  so  in  their  cruell  race 
They  pincht  the  haunches  of  that  gentle  beast, 

That  at  the  last,  and  in  short  time  I  spide, 
Under  a  rocke,  where  she,  alas,  opprest, 

Fell  to  the  ground,  and  there  untimely  dide. 
Cruell  death  vanquishing  so  noble  beautie 
Oft  makes  me  wrile  so  harde  a  destanie. 

ii. 
After,  at  sea,  a  tall  ship  did  appeare, 

Made  all  of  heben  and  white  yvorie  ; 
The  sailes  of  golde,  of  silk  the  tackle  were  ; 

Milde  was  the  winde,  calme  seemed  the  sea  to  bee, 
The  skie  eachwhere  did  show  full  bright  and  faire. 

With  rich  treasures  this  gay  ship  fraighted  was ; 


MEDLEY. 

But  sudden  storme  did  so  turmoyle  the  aire, 
And  tumbled  up  the  sea,  that  she  (alas !) 

Strake  on  a  rock  that  under  water  lay, 
And  perished  past  all  recoverie. 

0  !  how  great  ruth  and  sorrowful  assay 
Doth  vex  my  spirite  with  perplexitie, 

Thus  in  a  moment  to  see  lost  and  drown'd 

So  great  riches,  as  like  cannot  be  found. 

HI. 

The  heavenly  branches  did  I  see  arise 

Out  of  the  fresh  and  lustie  lawrell  tree, 
Amidst  the  yong  greene  wood  of  Paradise  ; 

Some  noble  plant  I  thought  my  selfe  to  see, 
Such  store  of  birds  therein  yshrowded  were, 

Chaunting  in  shade  their  sundrie  melodie, 
That  with  their  sweetness  I  was  ravisht  nere. 

While  on  this  lawrell  fixed  was  mine  eie, 
The  skie  gan  everie  where  to  overcast, 

And  darkened  was  the  welkin  all  about, 
When  sudden  flash  of  heaven's  fire  out  brast, 

And  rent  this  royall  tree  quite  by  the  roote  ; 
Which  makes  me  much,  and  ever,  to  complaine, 
For  no  such  shadowe  shal  be  had  againe. 

IV. 

Within  this  woode,  ont  of  a  rocke,  did  rise 

A  spring  of  water,  mildly  rumbling  downe, 
Wherto  approched  not  in  anie  wise 

The  homely  shepherd  nor  the  ruder  clowne, 
But  manie  muses,  and  the  nymphes  withall, 

That  sweetly  in  accord  did  tune  their  voyce 
To  the  soft  sounding  of  the  water's  fall, 

That  my  glad  heart  thereat  did  much  reioyce. 
But,  while  herein  I  tooke  my  chiefe  delight, 

I  saw  (alas !)  the  gaping  earth  devoure 
The  spring,  the  place,  and  all  cleane  out  of  sight ; 

Which  yet  aggrieves  my  hart  even  to  this  houre, 
And  wounds  my  soul  with  ruefull  memorie, 
To  see  such  pleasures  gon  so  suddenly. 

v. 
I  saw  a  phoenix  in  the  wood  alone, 

With  purple  wings  and  crest  of  golden  hewe ; 
Strange  bird  he  was,  whereby  I  thought  anone, 

That  of  some  heavenly  wight  I  had  the  viewe ; 


387 


388  MEDLEY. 

Untill  he  came  unto  the  broken  tree, 

And  to  the  spring,  that  late  devoured  was. 
What  say  I  more  ?     Each  thing  at  last  we  see 

Doth  passe  away  ;  the  phoenix  there,  alas  ! 
Spying  the  tree  destroid,  the  water  dride, 

Himself  smote  with  his  beake,  as  in  disdaine, 
And  so  forth  withe  in  greate  despight  he  dide ; 

That  yet  my  heart  burns  in  exceeding  paine, 
For  ruth  and  pitie  of  so  haples  plight ; 

0  !  let  mine  eyes  no  more  see  such  a  sight. 

VI. 

At  last  so  faire  a  ladie  did  I  spie, 

That  thinking  yet  on  her  I  burn  and  quake  ; 
On  hearts  and  flowres  she  walked  pensively 

Milde,  but  yet  love  she  proudly  did  forsake  ; 
White  seem'd  her  robes,  yet  woven  so  they  were 

As  snow  and  golde  together  had  beene  wrought ; 
Above  the  waste  a  darke  cloude  shrouded  her, 

A  stinging  serpent  by  the  heele  her  caught ; 
Wherewith  she  languish'd  as  the  gathered  flowre  ; 

And,  well  assured,  she  mounted  up  to  ioy. 
Alas,  on  earth  no  nothing  doth  endure 

But  bitter  griefe  and  sorrowful  annoy  ; 
Which  make  this  life  wretched  and  miserable, 
Tossed  with  stormes  of  fortune  variable. 

VII. 

When  I  beheld  this  tickle  trusties  state 

Of  vaine  worlde's  glorie,  flitting  to  and  fro, 

And  mortall  men  tossed  by  troublous  fate 
In  restless  seas  of  wretchednesse  and  woe, 

1  wish  I  might  this  wearie  life  foregoe, 

And  shortly  turn  into  my  happie  rest, 
Where  my  free  spirit  might  not  anie  moe 

Be  vext  with  sights  that  doo  her  peace  molest. 
And  ye,  faire  ladie,  in  whose  bounteous  brest 

All  heavenly  grace  and  vertue  shrined  is, 
When  ye  these  rymes  doe  read,  and  vow  the  rest, 

Loath  this  base  world,  and  thinke  of  heaven's  bliss ; 
And  though  ye  be  the  fairest  of  God's  creatures, 
Yet  thinke  that  Death  shall  spoyle  your  goodly  features. 
Translation  of  EDMUND  SPKNSER.  FKANCKSCO  PETRARCA,  1304-1G74. 


MEDLEY.  389 


THE    CAMPAGNA    OF    HOME. 

Perhaps  there  is  no  more  impressive  scene  on  earth  than  the  solitary 
extent  of  the  Campagna  of  Rome  under  evening  light.  Let  the  reader 
imagine  himself  for  a  moment  withdrawn  from  the  sounds  and  motion 
of  the  living  world,  and  sent  forth  alone  into  this  wild  and  wasted  plain. 
The  earth  yields  and  crumbles  beneath  his  foot,  tread  he  never  so  lightly, 
for  its  substance  is  white,  hollow,  and  carious,  like  the  dusty  wreck  of 
the  bones  of  men.  The  long,  knotted  grass  waves  and  tosses  feebly  in 
the  evening  wind,  and  the  shadows  of  its  motion  shake  feverishly  along 
the  banks  of  rivers  that  lift  themselves  to  the  sunlight.  Hillocks  of 
moldering  earth  heave  around  him,  as  if  th%  dead  beneath  were  strug- 
gling in  their  sleep ;  scattered  blocks  of  black  stone,  four  square,  rem- 
nants of  mighty  edifices,  not  one  left  upon  another,  lie  upon  them  to 
keep  them  down.  A  dull  purple,  poisonous  haze  stretches  level  along 
the  desert,  vailing  its  spectral  wrecks  of  massy  ruins,  on  whose  rents 
the  red  light  rests  like  dying  fire  on  defiled  altars.  The  blue  ridge  of 
the  Alban  mount  lifts  itself  against  a  solemn  space  of  green,  clear,  quiet 
sky.  Watch-towers  of  dark  clouds  stand  steadfastly  along  the  promon- 
tories of  the  Apennines.  From  the  plain  to  the  mountains,  the  shatter- 
ed aqueducts,  pier  beyond  pier,  melt  into  the  darkness,  like  shadowy 
and  countless  troops  of  funeral  mourners  passing  from  a  nation's  grave. 

JOHN  EUSKIN. 


THE    WAVE    OF    LIFE. 


"  Whither,  thou  turbid  wave  ? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  thou  ?" 

"  I  am  the  Wave  of  Life 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust ; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  me  from  the  slime 
Of  the  muddy  banks  of  Time." 
Translation  nf  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW.  CHRIBTOPH  TIBDOK,  1752-1S40. 


390  MEDLEY. 


MUTABILITY. 

From  low  to  high  doth  dissolution  climb, 

And  sinks  from  high  to  low,  along  a  scale 

Of  awful  notes,  whose  concord  shall  not  fail ; 

A  musical  but  melancholy  chime, 

Which  they  can  hear  who  meddle  not  with  crime, 

Nor  avarice,  nor  over-anxious  care. 

Truth  fails  not ;  but  her  outward  forms  that  bear 

The  longest  date  do  melt  like  frosty  rime, 

That  in  the  morning  whitened  hill  and  plain 

And  is  no  m^re  ;  drop  like  the  tower  sublime 

Of  yesterday,  that  royally  did  wear 

Its  crown  of  weeds,  but  could  not  even  sustain 

Some  casual  shout  that  broke  the  silent  air, 

Or  the  unimaginable  touch  of  Time. 

WILLIAM  WOBDSWORTH. 


XXVII. 


SBmter. 


AN  interesting  passage  from  Hesiod  is  given  below.  The 
extract  is  taken  from  the  "  Works  and  Days,"  a  poem 
giving  instructions  regarding  agriculture,  trade,  and  labor, 
blended  with  precepts  of  a  moral  character ;  and,  in  addition 
to  the  extremely  remote  date  of  its  origin,  the  passage  is  also 
remarkable  as  one  of  the  few  instances  in  which  a  poet  of 
the  old  heathen  world  has  entered  into  detail  of  description 
on  natural  subjects.  Its  authenticity  is,  I  believe,  admitted. 
"  The  picturesque  description  given  by  Hesiod  of  Winter 
bears  all  the  evidences  of  great  antiquity,"  says  a  learned 
German  critic 

WINTER. 


FKOM    IIKHIUIi. 


Beware  the  January  month,  beware 
Those  hurtful  days,  that  keenly  piercing  air. 
Which  flays  the  herds  ;  when  icicles  are' cast 
O'er  frozen  earth,  and  sheathe  the  nipping  blast. 


392  WINTER. 

From  courser-breeding  Thrace  comes  rushing  forth 

O'er  the  broad  sea  the  whirlwind  of  the  North, 

And  moves  it  with  his  breath  ;  the  ocean  floods 

Heave,  and  earth  bellows  through  her  wild  of  woods. 

Full  many  an  oak  of  lofty  leaf  he  fells 

And  strews  with  thick-branched  pines  the  mountain  dells 

He  stoops  to  earth  ;  the  crash  is  heard  around  ; 

The  depth  of  forests  rolls  the  roar  of  sound. 

The  beasts  their  cowering  tails  with  trembling  fold, 

And  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  gusty  cold ; 

Thick  is  the  hairy  coat,  the  shaggy  skin, 

But  that  all-chilling  breath  shall  pierce  within. 

Not  his  rough  hide  can  then  the  ox  avail ; 

The  long-haired  goat,  defenseless,  feels  the  gale  ; 

Yet  vain  the  northwind's  rushing  strength  to  wound 

The  flock  with  sheltering  fleeces  fenced  around. 

Translation  of  SIK  C.  A.  ELTON. 


A    WINTER    SCENE. 

FROM    "THE    SEASONS." 

The  keener  tempests  rise  ;  and  fuming  dun, 

From  all  the  livid  east,  or  piercing  north, 

Thick  clouds  ascend  ^  in  whose  capacious  womb 

A  vapory  deluge  lies,  to  snow  congeal'd. 

Heavy  they  roll  their  fleecy  world  along  ; 

And  the  sky  saddens  with  the  gathered  storm. 

Through  the  hush'd  air  the  whitening  shower  descends, 

At  first  thin  wavering  ;  till  at  last  the  flakes 

Fall  broad,  and  wide,  and  fast,  dimming  the  sky, 

With  a  continual  flow.     The  cherish'd  fields 

Put  on  their  winter  robe  of  purest  white. 

'Tis  brightness  all ;  save  where  the  new  snow  melts 

Along  the  mazy  current.     Low,  the  woods 

Bow  their  hoar  head  ;  and,  ere  the  languid  sun, 

Faint  from  the  west,  emits  his  evening  ray, 

Earth's  universal  face,  deep  hid  and  still, 

Is  one  wild  dazzling  waste,  that  buries  wide 

The  works  of  man.     Drooping,  the  laborer-ox 

Stands  cover'd  o'er  with  snow,  and  then  demands 

The  fruit  of  all  his  toil.     The  fowls  of  heaven, 

Tam'd  by  the  cruel  season,  crowd  around 

The  winnowing  store,  and  claim  the  little  boon 

Which  Providence  assrgns  them.     One  alone, 


WINTER.  393 

The  redbreast,  sacred  to  the  household  gods, 

Wisely  regardful  of  th'  embroiling  sky, 

In  joyless  fields  and  thorny  thickets  leaves 

His  shivering  mates,  and  pays  to  trusted  man 

His  annual  visit.     Half  afraid,  he  first 

Against  the  window  beats  ;  then,  brisk,  alights 

On  the  warm  hearth  ;  then,  hopping  o'er  the  floor 

Eyes  all  the  smiling  family  askance, 

And  pecks,  and  starts,  and  wonders  where  he  is  : 

Till,  more  familiar  grown,  the  table  crumbs 

Attract  his  slender  feet.    The  foodless  wilds 

Pour  forth  their  brown  inhabitants.    The  hare, 

Though  timorous  of  heart,  and  hard  beset 

By  death  in  various  forms,  dark  snares  and  dogs, 

And  more  unpi tying  men,  the  garden  seeks, 

Urg'd  on  by  fearless  want.     The  bleating  kind 

Eye  the  bleak  heaven,  and  next  the  glistening  earth, 

With  looks  of  dumb  despair  ;  then,  sad  dispers'd. 

Dig  for  the  withered  herb  through  heaps  of  snow. 

JAMBS  THOMSON,  1700-174S. 


WINTER    SONG. 


Summer  joys  are  o'er  ; 

Flow' rets  bloom  no  more 
Wintry  winds  are  sweeping, 
Through  the  snow-drifts  peeping, 

Cheerful  evergreen 

Rarely  now  is  seen. 

Now  no  plumed  throng 

Charms  the  wood  with  song  ; 
Ice-bound  trees  are  glittering ; 
Merry  snow-birds,  twittering, 

Fondly  strive  to  cheer 

Scenes  so  cold  and  drear. 

Winter,  still  I  see 
Many  charms  in  thee  ; 
Love  thy  chilly  greeting, 
Snow-storms  fiercely  beating, 
And  the  dear  delights 
Of  the  long,  long  nights. 

Translation  of  T.  BROOKS.  LUDWIG  HOLTT,  174S-1776. 

17* 


394  WINTER. 


HOLLY    SONG. 

Blow,  blow,  thou  winter  wind, 

Thou  art  not  so  unkind 
As  man's  ingratitude ; 

Thy  tooth  is  not  so  keen, 

Because  thou  art  not  seen, 

Although  thy  breath  be  rude. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly ; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly ; 

Then,  heigh  ho  !  the  holly  ; 

This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 

Freeze,  freeze,  thou  bitter  sky, 

Thou  dost  not  bite  so  nigh 
As  benefits  forgot ; 

Though  thou  the  waters  warp, 

Thy  sting  is  not  so  sharp 

As  friend  remembered  not. 
Heigh  ho  !  sing  heigh  ho  !  unto  the  green  holly ; 
Most  friendship  is  feigning,  most  loving  mere  folly  ; 

Then,  heigh  ho  !  the  holly  ! 

This  life  is  most  jolly  ! 


SHAKSPEABE. 


AN    OLD-FASHIONED    HOLLY    HEDGE. 

Is  there  under  heaven  a.  more  glorious  and  refreshing  object  of  the 
kind  than  an  impassable  hedge  of  about  four  hundred  feet  in  length,  nine 
feet  high,  and  five  feet  in  diameter,  which  I  can  show  in  my  gardens  at 
Say's  Court,  at  any  time  of  the  year,  glittering  with  its  armed  and  var- 
nished leaves,  the  taller  standards  at  orderly  distances  blushing  with 
their  natural  coral — shorn  and  fashioned  into  columns  and  pilasters, 

architecturally  shaped,  at  due  distance  ? 

EVELYN'S  " Sitva" 


CHRISTMAS    CAROL 

HOLLY  AND   IVY. 


Holly  and  Ivy  made  a  great  party, 
Who  should  have  the  mastery 
In  lands  where  they  go. 


WINTER.  395 

Then  spake  Holly,  "  I  am  fierce  and  jolly, 
I  will  have  the  mastery 

In  lands  where  we  go  !" 
Then  spake  Ivy,  "  I  am  loud  and  proud, 
And  I  will  have  the  mastery 

In  lands  where  we  go  !" 

Then  spake  Holly,  and  bent  down  on  his  knee, 
"  I  pray  thee,  gentle  Ivy,  essay  me  no  villainy, 

In  lands  where  we  go !" 


Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  it  shall  not  be,  I  wis, 

Let  Holly  have  the  mastery,  as  the  manner  is. 
Holly  standeth  in  the  hall  fair  to  behold ; 
Ivy  stands  without  the  door,  she  is  full  sore  a  cold. 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  etc.,  etc. 

Holly  and  his  merry  men,  they  dance  now  and  they  sing ; 
Ivy  and  her  maidens  they  weep  and  their  hands  wring. 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  etc.,  etc. 
Ivy  hath  a  lyke,*  she  caught  it  with  the  cold, 
So  may  they  all  have  that  do  with  Ivy  hold. 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  etc.,  etc. 
Holly  he  hath  berries  as  red  as  any  rose, 
The  foresters,  the  hunters,  keep  them  for  the  does. 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  etc.,  etc. 
Ivy  she  hath  berries  as  black  as  any  sloe, 
There  come  the  owls  and  eat  them  as  they  goe. 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  etc.,  etc. 
Holly  he  hath  birds,  a  full,  fair  flock, 
The  nightingale,  the  popinjay,  the  gentle  laverock. 

Nay,  Ivy,  nay,  etc.,  etc. 
Good  Ivy  say  to  us  what  bird  hath  thou ; 
None  but  the  owlet  that  cries  How  !  How ! 

Dating  in  the  14&  century. 


THE    SEASONS. 

A  blue-eyed  child  that  sits  amid  the  noon, 
O'erhung  with  a  laburnum's  drooping  sprays, 

Singing  her  little  songs,  while  softly,  'round 
Along  the  grass  the  checkered  sunshine  plays. 

All  beauty  that  is  throned  in  womanhood, 
Pacing  a  summer-garden's  fountain- walks, 

*  Unexplained  in  any  glossary. 


396  WINTER. 

That  stoops  to  smooth  a  glossy  spaniel  down, 
To  hide  her  flushing  cheek  from  one  who  talks. 

A  happy  mother  with  her  fair-faced  girls, 

In  whose  sweet  Spring  again  her  youth  she  sees, 

With  shout  and  dance,  and  laugh  and  bound  and  song, 
Stripping  an  Autumn  orchard's  laden  trees. 

An  aged  woman  in  a  wintry  room — 

Frost  on  the  pane,  without  the  whirling  snow — 

Reading  old  letters  of  her  far-off  youth, 
Of  sorrows  past  and  joys  of  long  ago. 

N.  C.  BENNET. 


A    WINTER    SONG. 

When  icicles  hang  Tby  the  wall, 

And  Dick  the  shepherd  blows  his  nail, 
And  Tom  bears  logs  into  the  hall, 

And  milk  comes  frozen  home  in  pail ; 
When  blood  is  nipp'd,  and  ways  be  foul, 
Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 

To-whoo ; 

Tu-whit,  to-whoo,  a  merry  note, 
While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

When  all  aloud  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  coughing  drowns  the  parson's  saw, 

And  birds  sit  brooding  in  the  snow, 
And  Marian's  nose  looks  red  and  raw ; 

When  roasted  crabs  hiss  in  the  bowl, 

Then  nightly  sings  the  staring  owl, 
To-whoo ; 

Tu-whit,  to-whoo,  a  merry  note, 

While  greasy  Joan  doth  keel  the  pot. 

SHAKSPBABE. 


THE    THRUSH. 

Sing  on,  sweet  thrush,  upon  the  leafless  bough ; 

Sing  on,  sweet  bird,  I  listen  to  thy  strain ; 

See  aged  Winter,  'mid  his  surly  reign, 
At  thy  blithe  carol  cheers  his  furrowed  brow. 


WINTER.  397 

So  in  lone  Poverty's  dominion  drear 

Sits  meek  Content  with  light,  unanxious  heart, 
Welcomes  the  rapid  movements,  bids  them  part, 

Nor  asks  if  they  bring  aught  to  hope  or  fear. 

I  thank  thee,  Author  of  this  opening  day  ! 

Thou  whose  bright  sun  now  gilds  the  Orient  skies ! 

Riches  denied,  thy  boon  was  purer  joys, 
What  wealth  could  never  give  nor  take  away ! 

Yet  come,  thou  child  of  poverty  and  care  ; 
The  mite  high  Heaven  bestow'd,  that  mite  with  thee  I'll  share. 

EOBEBT  BURNS,  1750-1796. 


SONNET. 

Sheath'd  is  the  river  as  it  glideth  by, 
Frost-pearl'd  are  all  the  boughs  in  forests  old, 
The  sheep  are  huddling  close  upon  the  wold, 
And  over  them  the  stars  tremble  on  high. 
Pure  joys,  these  winter  nights,  around  me  lie  ; 
'Tis  fine  to  loiter  through  the  lighted  streets 
At  Christmas  time,  and  guess  from  brow  and  pace 
The  doom  and  history  of  each  one  we  meet ; 
What  kind  of  heart  beats  in  each  dusky  case ; 
Whiles  startled  by  the  beauty  of  a  face 
In  a  shop-light  a  moment ;  or,  instead, 
To  dream  of  silent  fields,  where  calm  and  deep 
The  sunshine  lieth  like  a  golden  sleep — 
Recalling  sweetest  looks  of  summers  dead. 

ALEXANDER  Si 


SPRING    AND    WINTER. 


FKOM    THE    FRENCH. 


Gentle  Spring,  in  sunshine  clad, 

Well  dost  thou  thy  power  display ! 
For  Winter  inaketh  the  light  heart  sad, 

And  thou — thou  makest  the  sad  heart  gay. 
He  sees  thee,  and  calls  to  his  gloomy  train, 
The  sleet,  and  the  snow,  and  the  wind,  and  the  rain ; 
And  they  shrink  away,  and  they  flee  in  fear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near ! 


398  WINTER. 

Winter  giveth  the  fields  and  the  trees  so  old 

Their  beards  of  icicles  and  snow  ; 
And  the  rain  it  raineth  so  fast  and  cold, 

We  must  cover  over  the  embers  low  ; 
And,  snugly  housed  from  the  wind  and  weather, 
Mope  like  birds  that  are  changing  feather. 
But  the  storm  retires,  and  the  sky  grows  clear, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near  ! 

Winter  maketh  the  sun  in  the  gloomy  sky 

Wrap  him  'round  with  a  mantle  of  cloud ; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised  !  thy  step  is  nigh  ; 
Thou  tearest  away  the  mournful  shroud, 
And  the  Earth  looks  bright,  and  Winter  surly, 
Who  has  toiled  for  naught,  both  late  and  early, 
Is  banished  afar  by  the  new-born  year, 
When  thy  merry  step  draws  near  ! 
Translation  ly  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW.  CHARLES,  DUKE  OF  ORLEANS,  1391-146T. 


WOODS    IN    WINTER. 

When  winter  winds  are  piercing  chill, 

And  through  the  hawthorn  blows  the  gale, 

With  solemn  feet  I  tread  the  hill 
That  overbrows  the  lonely  vale. 

O'er  the  bare  upland,  and  away 

Through  the  long  reach  of  desert  woods, 

The  embracing  sunbeams  chastely  play, 
And  gladden  those  deep  solitudes 

Where,  twisted  round  the  barren  oak, 
The  summer  vine  in  beauty  clung, 

And  summer  winds  the  silence  broke, 
The  crystal  icicle  is  hung. 

Where  from  their  frozen  urns,  mute  springs 
Pour  out  the  river's  gradual  tide, 

Shrilly  the  skater's  iron  rings, 
And  voices  fill  the  woodland  side. 

Alas  !  how  changed  from  the  fair  scene, 
When  birds  sang  out  their  mellow  lay, 

And  winds  were  soft,  and  woods  were  green, 
And  the  song  ceased  not  with  the  day. 


WINTER.  399 

But  still  wild  music  is  abroad, 

Pale,  desert  woods  !  within  your  crowd ; 
And  gathering  winds  in  hoarse  accord 

Amid  the  vocal  reeds  pipe  loud. 

Chill  airs,  and  wintry  winds  !  my  ear 

Has  grown  familiar  with  your  song ; 
I  hear  it  in  the  opening  year — 

I  listen,  and  it  cheers  me  long. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW. 


WINTER. 

Sad  soul — dear  heart,  0  why  repine  ? 

The  melancholy  tale  is  plain ; 
The  leaves  of  spring,  the  summer  flowers 

Have  bloomed  and  died  again. 

The  sweet  and  silver-sandaled  Dew, 

Which,  like  a  maiden,  fed  the  flowers, 
Hath  waned  into  the  beldame  Frost, 

And  walked  amid  our  bowers. 

Some  buds  there  were — sad  hearts,  be  still ! 

Which  looked  awhile  unto  the  sky, 
Then  breathed  but  once  or  lived,  to  tell 

How  sweetest  things  may  die  ! 

And  some  must  blight  where  many  bloom ; 

But,  blight  or  bloom,  the  fruit  must  fall ! 
Why  sigh  for  spring  or  summer  flowers, 

Since  winter  gathers  all  ? 

He  gathers  all — but  chide  him  not ; 

He  wraps  them  in  his  mantle  cold, 
And  folds  them  close,  as  best  he  can, 

For  he  is  blind  and  old. 

Sad  soul — dear  heart,  no  more  repine- 

The  tale  is  beautiful  and  plain  : 
Surely  as  winter  taketh  all, 

The  spring  shall  bring  again. 

T.  B.  BEAD. 


XXVIII. 


FRAGMENT    FROM   THE    GREEK    OF   ARISTOTLE. 

IF  there  were  beings  who  lived  in  the  depths  of  the  earth,  in  dwell- 
ings adorned  with  statues  and  paintings,  and  every  thing  which  is 
possessed  in  rich  abundance  by  those  whom  we  esteem  fortunate ;  and 
if  these  beings  could  receive  tidings  of  the  power  and  might  of  the  gods. 
;md  could  then  emerge  from  their  hidden  dwellings  through  the  open 
iissures  of  the  earth,  to  the  places  which  we  inhabit ;  if  they  could  sud- 
denly behold  the  earth,  and  the  sea,  and  the  vault  of  heaven ;  could 
recognize  the  expanse  of  the  cloudy  firmament,  and  the  might  of  the 
winds  of  heaven,  and  admire  the  sun  in  its  majesty,  beauty,  and  radi- 
ant effulgence ;  and,  lastly,  when  night  vailed  the  earth  in  darkness, 
they  could  behold  the  starry  heavens,  the  changing  moon,  and  the  stars 
rising  and  setting  in  the  unvarying  course  ordained  from  eternity,  they 
would  surely  exclaim,  "  There  are  gods,  and  such  great  things  must 
be  'the  work  of  their  hands." 

Translation  from  HUMBOLDT'S  "Cosmos." 


MEDLEY.  401 


THE  CREATION  OF  THE  EARTH. 

God  said, 

Be  gather'd  now,  ye  waters  under  heav'n, 
Into  one  place,  and  let  dry  land  appear. 
Immediately  the  mountains  huge  appear 
Emergent,  and  their  broad  backs  upheave 
Into  the  clouds,  their  tops  ascend  the  sky. 
So  high  as  heav'd  the  tumid  hills,  so  low 
Down  sunk  a  hollow  bottom,  broad  and  deep, 
Capacious  bed  of  waters  :  thither  they 
Hasted  with  glad  precipitance,  uproll'd 
As  drops  on  dust  conglobing  from  the  dry  : 
Part  rise  in  crystal  wall,  or  ridge  direct, 
For  haste ;  such  flight  the  great  command  imprest 
On  the  swift  floods  ;  as  armies  at  the  call 
Of  trumpet  (for  of  armies  thou  hast  heard) 
Troop  to  their  standard,  so  the  wat'ry  throng, 
Wave  rolling  after  wave,  where  way  they  found ; 
If  steep,  with  torrent  rapture,  if  through  plain, 
Soft-ebbing ;  nor  withstood  them  rock  or  hill, 
But  they,  or  under  ground,  or  circuit  wide 
With  serpent  error  wand'ring,  found  their  way, 
And  on  the  washy  ooze  deep  channels  wore, 
Easy,  ere  God  had  bid  the  ground  be  dry, 
All  but  within  those  banks,  where  rivers  now 
Stream,  and  perpetual  draw  their  humid  train. 
The  dry  land  Earth,  and  the  great  receptacle 
Of  congregated  waters  he  call'd  Seas ; 
And  saw  that  it  was  good,  and  said,  Let  th'  earth 
Put  forth  the  verdant  grass,  herb  yielding  seed, 
And  fruit-tree  yielding  fruit  after  her  kind ; 
Whose  seed  is  in  herself  upon  the  earth. 
He  scarce  had  said,  when  the  bare  earth,  till  then 
Desert  and  bare,  unsightly,  unadorn'd, 
Brought  forth  the  tender  grass,  whose  verdure  clad 
Her  universal  face  with  pleasant  green ; 
Then  herbs  of  every  leaf,  that  sudden  flower'd, 
Op'ning  their  various  colors,  and  made  gay 
Her  bosom  smelling  sweet ;  and  these  scarce  blown, 
Forth  flourish'd  thick  the  clustering  vine,  forth  crept 
The  swelling  gourd,  up  stood  the  corny  reed 
Embattl'd  in -her  field  ;  and  th'  humble  shrub, 


402  MEDLEY. 

And  bush  with  frizzled  hair  implicit :  last 
Rose,  as  in  dance,  the  stately  trees,  and  spread 
Their  branches  hung  with  copious  fruit,  or  gemm'd 
Their  blossoms  :  with  high  wood  the  hills  were  crown' d ; 
With  tufts  the  valleys  and  each  fountain  side, 
With  borders  'long  the  rivers  :  that  earth  now 
Seem'd  like  to  heav'n,  a  seat  where  Gods  might  dwell 
Or  wander  with  delight,  and  love  to  haunt 
Her  sacred  shades.        *        *        *        * 

JOHN  MILTON,  1608-1674. 


EARTH. 

Harp  !  lift  thy  voice  on  high, 

And  run  in  rapid  numbers  o'er  the  face 

Of  Nature's  scenery  ;  and  there  were  day 

And  night,  and  rising  suns,  and  setting  suns ; 

And  clouds  that  seemed  like  chariots  of  saints, 

By  fiery  coursers  drawn — as  brightly  head 

As  if  the  glorious,  lusty,  golden  locks 

Of  thousand  cherubims  had  been  shorn  off, 

And  on  the  temples  hung  of  morn  and  even ; 

And  there  were  moons,  and  stars,  and  darkness  streaked 

With  light ;  and  voice  of  tempest  heard  secure. 

And  there  were  seasons  coming  evermore, 

And  going  still — all  fair  and  always  new, 

With  bloom,  and  fruit,  and  fields  of  hoary  grain. 

And  there  were  hills  of  flocks,  and  groves  of  song  ; 

And  flowery  streams,  and  garden  walks  embowered, 

Where  side  by  side  the  rose  and  lily  bloomed. 

And  sacred  founts,  wild  hills,  and  moonlight  glens ; 

And  forests  vast,  fair  lawns,  and  lovely  oaks, 

And  little  willows  sipping  at  the  brook ; 

Old  wizard  haunts,  and  dancing  seats  of  mirth ; 

Gay,  festive  bowers,  and  palaces  in  dust ; 

Dark  owlet  nooks,  and  caves,  and  belted  rocks ; 

And  winding  valleys,  roofed  with  pendent  shade  ; 

And  tall  and  perilous  cliffs,  that  overlooked 

The  breath  of  Ocean,  sleeping  on  his  waves. 

Sounds,  sights,  smells,  tastes ;  the  heaven  and  earth,  profuse 

In  endless  sweets,  above  all  praise  of  song  : 

For  not  to  use  alone  did  Providence 

Abound,  but  large  example  gave  to  man 


MEDLEY.  403 

Of  grace,  and  ornament,  and  splendor  rich  ; 
Suited  abundantly  to  every  taste 
In  bird,  beast,  fish,  winged  and  creeping  thing  ; 
In  herb  and  flower  ;  and  in  the  restless  change 
Which  on  the  many-colored  seasons  made 
The  annual  circuit  of  the  fruitful  earth. 

ROBERT  POLLOCK,  1799-1827. 


THE    SHIELD    OF    ACHILLES. 

FROM   THE   "  ILIAD." 

****** 

He  also  graved  on  it  a  fallow  field, 

Rich,  spacious,  and  well  tilled.    Flowers  not  few, 

There  driving  to  and  fro  their  sturdy  teams, 

Labor'd  the  land ;  and  oft  as  in  their  course 

They  came  to  the  field's  bourn,  so  oft  a  man 

Met  them,  who  in  their  hands  a  goblet  placed, 

Charged  with  delicious  wine.     They,  turning,  wrought 

Each  his  own  furrow,  and  impatient  seem'd 

To  reach  the  border  of  the  tilth,  which  black 

Appear'd  behind  them  as  a  glebe  new-turn'd, 

Though  golden,  sight  to  be  admired  by  all ! 

There,  too,  he  form'd  the  likeness  of  a  field, 
Crowded  with  corn,  in  which  the  reapers  toil'd 
Each  with  a  sharp-tooth'd  sickle  in  his  hand. 
Along  the  furrow  here  the  harvest  fell 
In  frequent  handfuls,  there  they  bound  the  sheaves. 
Three  binders  of  the  sheaves  their  sultry  task 
All  plied  industrious,  and  behind  them  boys 
Attended,  filling  with  the  corn  their  arms, 
And  offering  still  their  bundles  to  be  bound. 
Amid  them,  staff  in  hand,  the  master  stood 
Silent  exulting,  while  beneath  an  oak 
Apart,  his  heralds  busily  prepared 
The  banquet,  dressing  a  well- thriven  ox, 
New  slain,  and  the  attendant  maidens  mix'd 
Large  supper  for  the  hinds  of  whitest  flour. 

There,  also,  laden  with  its  fruit,  he  form'd 
A  vineyard  all  of  gold ;  purple  he  made 
The  clusters,  and  the  vines  supported,  stood 
By  poles  of  silver  set  in  even  rows. 
The  trench  he  color'd  sable,  and  around 
Fenced  it  with  tin.     One  only  path  it  show'd 


404  MEDLEY. 

By  which  the  gatherers,  when  they  stripp'd  the  vines, 
Pass'd  and  repass'd.    There,  youths  and  maidens  blithe, 
In  pails  of  wicker  bore  the  luscious  fruit, 
While  in  the  midst  a  boy,  on  his  shrill  harp, 
Harmonious  play'd ;  still  as  he  struck  the  chord, 
Carolling  to  it  with  a  slender  voice, 
They  smote  the  ground  together,  and  with  song 
And  sprightly  reed  came  dancing  on  behind. 

There,  too,  a  herd  he  fashion'd  of  tall  beeves, 
Part  gold,  part  tin ;  they,  lowing,  from  the  stalls 
Rush'd  forth  to  pasture  by  a  river-side, 
Rapid,  sonorous,  fringed  with  whispering  reeds. 
Four  golden  herdsmen  drove  the  kine  a-field, 
By  nine  swift  dogs  attended.     Dreadful  sprang 
Two  lions  forth,  and  of  the  foremost  herd, 
Seized  fast  a  bull.     Him,  bellowing,  they  dragg'd, 
While  dogs  and  peasants  all  flew  to  his  aid. 
The  lions  tore  the  hide  of  the  huge  prey, 
And  lapp'd  his  entrails  and  his  blood.     Meantime 
The  herdsmen,  troubling  them  in  vain,  their  hounds 
Encouraged ;  but  no  tooth  for  lion's  flesh 
Found  they,  and  therefore  stood  aside  and  bark'd. 

There,  also,  the  illustrious  smith  divine 
Amidst  a  pleasant  grove  a  pasture  found 
Spacious,  and  sprinkled  o'er  with  silver  sheep 
Numerous,  and  stalls,  and  huts,  and  shepherds'  tents. 
Translation  of  WILLIAM  COWPBE.  Hon 


LINES 

FROM   "  CH1LDE   HABOLD." 

Clear,  placid  Leman  !  thy  contrasted  lake, 

With  the  wild  world  I  dwell  in,  is  a  tiling 
Which  warns  me,  with  its  stillness,  to  forsake 

Earth's  troubled  waters  for  a  purer  spring. 
His  quiet  sail  is  as  a  noiseless  wing 

To  waft  me  from  distraction ;  once  I  loved 
Torn  Ocean's  roar,  but  thy  soft  murmuring 

Sounds  sweet  as  if  a  sister's  voice  reproved, 
That  I  with  stern  delights  should  e'er  have  been  so  moved. 

It  is  the  hush  of  night,  and  all  between 

Thy  margin  and  the  mountains,  dusk,  yet  clear, 


MEDLEY.  405 

Mellow'd  and  mingling,  yet  distinctly  seen, 
Save  darken'd  Jura,  whose  capt  heights  appear 

Precipitously  steep ;  and,  drawing  near, 

There  breathes  a  living  fragrance  from  the  shore, 

Of  flowers  yet  fresh  with  childhood  ;  on  the  ear 

Drops  the  light  drip  of  the  suspended  oar, 
Or  chirps  the  grasshopper  one  good-night  carol  more  : 

He  is  an  evening  reveler,  who  makes 

His  life  an  infancy,  and  sings  his  fill ; 
At  intervals,  some  bird  from  out  the  brakes 

Starts  into  voice  a  moment,  then  is  still. 
There  seems  a  floating  whisper  on  the  hill ; 

But  that  is  fancy,  for  the  starlight  dews 
All  silently  their  tears  of  love  instill, 

Weeping  themselves  away,  till  they  infuse 
Deep  into  Nature's  breast  the  spirit  of  her  hues. 

Ye  stars  !  which  are  the  poetry  of  heaven, 

If  in  your  bright  leaves  we  would  read  the  fate 
Of  men  and  empires — 'tis  to  be  forgiven, 

That  in  our  aspirations  to  be  great, 
Our  destinies  o'erleap  their  mortal  state, 

And  claim  a  kindred  with  you ;  for  ye  are 
A  beauty  and  a  mystery,  and  create 

In  us  such  love  and  reverence  from  afar, 
That  fortune,  fame,  power,  life,  have  named  themselves  a  star 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still — though  not  in  sleep, 

But  breathless,  as  we  grow  when  feeling  most ; 
And  silent,  as  we  stand  in  thoughts  too  deep  : 

All  heaven  and  earth  are  still :  from  the  high  host 
Of  stars,  and  to  the  lull'd  lake  and  mountain  coast, 

All  is  concenter'd  in  a  life  intense, 
Where  not  a  beam,  nor  air,  nor  leaf  is  lost, 

But  hath  a  part  of  being,  and  a  sense 
Of  that  which  is  of  all  Creator,  and  defense. 

Then  stirs  the  feeling  infinite,  so  felt 

In  solitude,  where  we  are  least  alone : 
A  truth  which  through  our  being  then  doth  melt, 

And  purifies  from  self ;  it  is  a  tone 
The  soul  and  source  of  music,  which  makes  known 

Eternal  harmony,  and  sheds  a  charm 
Like  to  the  fabled  Cytherea's  zone, 


406  MEDLEY. 

Binding  all  things  with  beauty  ;  't  would  disarm 
The  specter  Death,  had  he  substantial  power  to  harm. 

Not  vainly  did  the  early  Persian  make 
His  altar  the  high  places  and  the  peak 

Of  earth  o'ergazing  mountains,  and  thus  take 
A  fit  and  unwall'd  temple,  there  to  seek 

The  spirit,  in  whose  honor  shrines  are  weak, 
Unrear'd  of  human  hands.     Come  and  compare 

Columns,  and  idol-dwellings,  Goth  or  Greek, 

With  Nature's  realms  of  worship,  earth  and  air, 
Nor  fix  on  fond  abodes  to  circumscribe  thy  prayer. 

The  sky  is  changed  !  and  such  a  change  !     Oh  night, 

And  storm,  and  darkness,  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 

Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman  !     Far  along, 
From  peak  to  peak,  the  rattling  crags  among, 

Leaps  the  live  thunder  !     Not  from  one  lone  cloud, 
But  every  mountain  now  hath  found  a  tongue, 

And  Jura  answers  through  her  misty  shroud, 
Back  to  the  joyous  Alps,  who  call  to  her  aloud ! 

And  this  is  in  the  night :  most  glorious  night ! 

Thou  wert  not  sent  for  slumber  !  let  me  be 
A  sharer  in  thy  fierce  and  far  delight — 

A  portion  of  the  tempest,  and  of  thee  ! 
How  the  lit  lake  shines,  a  phosphoric  sea, 

And  the  big  rain  comes  dancing  to  the  earth  ! 
And  now  again  'tis  black — and  now  the  glee 

Of  the  loud  hills  shakes  with  its  mountain-mirth, 
As  if  they  did  rejoice  o'er  a  young  earthquake's  birth. 

Now,  where  the  swift  Rhone  cleaves  his  way  between 

Heights  which  appear  as  lovers  who  have  parted 
In  hate,  whose  mining  depths  so  intervene, 

That  they  can  meet  no  more,  though  broken-hearted 
Though  in  their  souls,  which  thus  each  other  thwarted, 

Love  was  the  very  root  of  the  fond  rage, 
Which  blighted  their  life's  bloom,  and  then  departed ; 

Itself  expired,  but  leaving  them  an  age 
Of  years  all  winters — war  within  themselves  to  rage. 

Now,  where  the  quick  Rhone  thus  has  cleft  his  way, 
The  mightiest  of  the  storms  hath  ta'en  his  stand, 

For  here  not  one,  but  many,  make  their  play, 
And  fling  their  thunderbolts  from  hand  to  hand, 


MEDLEY  407 

The  brightest  through  these  parted  hills  hath  fork'd 

His  lightnings — as  if  he  did  understand 
That  in  such  gaps  as  desolation  work'd, 
There  the  hot  shaft  should  blast  whatever  therein  lurk'd. 

Sky,  mountains,  river,  winds,  lake,  lightnings !  ye  ! 

With  night,  and  clouds,  and  thunder,  and  a  soul 
To  make  these  felt,  and  feeling,  well  may  be, 

Things  that  have  made  me  watchful ;  the  far  roll 
Of  your  departing  voices  is  the  knoll 

Of  what  in  me  is  sleepless — if  I  rest. 
But  where,  of  ye,  0  tempests  !  is  the  goal  ? 

Are  ye  like  those  within  the  human  breast  ? 
Or  do  ye  find,  at  length,  like  eagles,  some  high  nest  ? 

LORD  BTEON,  1788-1824. 


AN    ITALIAN    NOON. 

LINES  WRITTEN  AMONG  THE   EUGANKAN  HILLS,   OCTOBEB,   1818. 
***** 

Noon  descends  around  me  now ; 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist, 
Lake  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star, 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound, 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky, 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning- winged  feet, 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 
Piercing  with  their  trellis'd  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness; 
The  dim  and  bladed  grass  no  less 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air ;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandaled  Apennine, 


408  MEDLEY. 


In  the  south  dimly  islanded  ; 

And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one  ; 

And  my  spirit,  which  so  long 

Darken'd  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  ; 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odor,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  Heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse, 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 


P.  B.  SHELLEY. 


ITALIAN    SONG. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale ; 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  warbles  there ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  grove  and  myrtle  bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  charm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  lov'd  lute's  romantic  sound  ; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn,  at  break  of  day, 
The  ballet  danc'd  in  twilight  glade. 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay, 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade ; 
These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 

SAMUEL  KOGEKS. 


A    FAEM    SCENE    IN    PORTUGAL. 

FBOM   A   LETTMR   OF    W.    BKCKFORD,   ESQ. 

October  19, 1T97. 
*  *  ***** 

The  valley  of  Collares  affords  me  a  source  of  perpetual  amusement. 
I  have  discovered  a  variety  of  paths  which  lead  through  chestnut  copses 
and  orchards  to  irregular  green  spots,  where  self-sown  bays  and  citron- 


MEDLEY,  409 

bushes  hang  wild  over  the  rocky  margin  of  a  little  river,  and  drop  their 
fruit  and  blossoms  into  the  stream.  You  may  ride  for  miles  along  the 
banks  of  this  delightful  water,  catching  endless  perspectives  of  flowery 
thickets,  between  the  stems  of  poplar  and  walnut.  The  scenery  is  truly 
Elysian,  and  exactly  such  as  poets  assign  for  the  resort  of  happy  spirits. 
The  mossy  fragments  of  rocks,  grotesque  pollards,  and  rustic  bridges 
you  meet  with  at  every  step,  recall  Savoy  and  Switzerland  to  the  imagi- 
nation; but  the  exotic  cast  of  the  vegetation,  the  vivid  green  of  the 
citron,  the  golden  fruitage  of  the  orange,  the  blossoming  myrtle,  and  the 
rich  fragrance  of  a  turf  embroidered  with  the  brightest-colored  and  most 
aromatic  flowers,  allow  me,  without  a  stretch  of  fancy,  to  believe  my- 
self in  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides,  and  to  expect  the  dragon  under 
every  tree.  I  by  no  means  like  the  thought  of  abandoning  these  smiling 
regions,  and  have  been  twenty  times  on  the  point,  this  very  day,  of  re- 
voking the  orders  I  have  given  for  my  journey.  Whatever  objections  I 
may  have  had  to  Portugal  seem  to  vanish  since  I  have  determined  to 
leave  it ;  for  such  is  the  perversity  of  human  nature,  that  objects  appear 
the  most  estimable  precisely  at  the  moment  when  we  are  going  to  leave 
them. 

There  was  this  morning  a  mild  radiance  in  the  sunbeams,  and  a  bal- 
samic serenity  in  the  air,  which  infused  that  voluptuous  listlessness — 
that  desire  of  remaining  imparadised  in  one  delightful  spot,  which,  in 
classical  fictions,  was  supposed  to  render  those  who  had  tasted  of  the 
lotus,  forgetful  of  friends  and  of  every  tie.  My  feelings  were  not  dis- 
similar ;  I  loathed  the  idea  of  moving  away. 

Though  I  had  entered  these  beautiful  orchards  soon  after  sunrise,  the 
clocks  of  some  distant  conventual  churches  had  chimed  hour  after  hour, 
before  I  could  prevail  upon  myself  to  quit  the  spreading  odoriferous  bay- 
trees  under  which  I  had  been  lying.  If  shades  so  cool  and  fragrant  in- 
vited to  repose,  I  must  observe,  that  never  were  paths  better  calculated 
to  tempt  the  laziest  of  beings  to  a  walk,  than  those  that  opened  on  all 
sides,  and  are  formed  of  a  smooth,  dry  sand,  bound  firmly  together, 
composing  a  surface  as  hard  as  gravel.  These  level  paths  wind  about 
among  a  labyrinth  of  light,  elegant  fruit-trees :  almond,  plum,  and 
cherry,  something  like  the  groves  of  Tongo-Taboo,  as  represented  in 
Cook's  voyages  ;  and  to  increase  the  resemblance,  neat,  clean  fences  and 
low.  open  sheds,  thatched  with  reeds,  appear  at  intervals,  breaking  the 
horizontal  line  of  the  perspective.  I  had  now  lingered  and  loitered  away 
pretty  nearly  the  whole  morning,  and  though,  as  far  as  scenery  could 
authorize  and  climate  inspire,  I  might  fancy  myself  an  inhabitant  of 
Polynesia,  I  could  not  pretend  to  be  sufficiently  ethereal  to  exist  without 
nourishment.  In  plain  English,  I  was  extremely  hungry.  The  pears, 
quinces,  and  oranges,  which  dangled  above  my  head,  although  fair  to 
the  eye,  were  neither  so  juicy  nor  so  gratifying  to  the  palate,  as  might 
have  been  expected  from  their  promising  appearance. 

18 


410  MEDLEV. 

Being  considerably 

"  More  than  a  mile  within  the  wood," 

and  not  recollecting  by  which  clue  of  a  path  I  could  get  out  of  it,  I  re- 
mained at  least  half  an  hour  deliberating  which  way  to  turn  myself. 
The  sheds  and  inclosures  I  have  mentioned  were  put  together  with  care, 
and  even  nicety,  it  is  true,  but  seemed  to  have  no  other  inhabitants 
than  flocks  of  bantams,  strutting  about  and  destroying  the  eggs  and  hopes 
of  many  an  insect  family.  These  glistening  fowls,  like  their  brethren 
described  in  Anson's  voyages,  as  ruminating  the  profound  solitudes  of  the 
island  of  Tinian,  appeared  to  have  no  master.  At  length,  just  as  I  was 
beginning  to  wish  myself  very  heartily  in  a  less  romantic  region,  I  heard 
the  loud,  though  not  unmusical  tones  of  a  powerful  female  voice,  echoing 
through  the  arched  green  avenues ;  presently  a  stout,  ruddy  young  pea- 
sant, very  picturesquely  attired  in  brown  and  scarlet,  came  hoydening 
along,  driving  a  mule  before  her  laden  with  two  enormous  panniers  of 
grapes.  To  ask  for  a  share  of  this  luxurious  load,  and  to  compliment  the 
fair  driver,  was  instantaneous  on  my  part — but  to  no  purpose.  I  was 
answered  by  a  sly  wink :  "  We  all  belong  to  Senhor  Jose  Dias,  whose 
coreal  (farm-yard)  is  half  a  league  distant.  There,  Senhor,  if  you  fol- 
low that  road  and  don't  puzzle  yourself  by  a  straying  to  the  right  or 
left,  you  will  soon  reach  it,  and  the  bailiff,  I  dare  say,  will  be  proud  to 
give  you  as  many  grapes  as  you  please.  Good-morning  ;  happy  days  to 
you  !  I  must  mind  my  business." 

Seating  herself  between  the  tantalizing  panniers,  she  was  gone  in  an 
instant,  and  I  had  the  good  luck  to  arrive  at  the  wicket  of  a  rude,  dry 
well,  winding  up  several  bushy  slopes  in  a  wild,  irregular  manner.  If 
the  outside  of  this  inclosure  was  rough  and  unpromising,  the  interior 
presented  a  most  cheerful  scene  of  rural  opulence :  droves  of  cows  and 
goats  milking ;  ovens,  out  of  which  huge  savory  cakes  of  bread  had  just 
been  taken  ;  ranges  of  bee-hives  and  long  pillared  sheds,  entirely  tapes- 
tried with  purple  and  yellow  muscadine  grapes  half  candied,  which 
were  hung  up  to  dry.  A  very  good-natured,  classical-looking  magister 
pecorum,  followed  by  two  well-disciplined,  though  savage-eyed  dogs, 
whom  the  least  glance  of  their  master  prevented  from  barking,  gave  me 
a  hearty  welcome,  and  with  genuine  hospitality  not  only  allowed  me  the 
free  range  of  his  domain,  but  set  whatever  it  produced  in  the  greatest 
perfection  before  me.  A  contest  took  place  between  two  or  three  curly- 
haired,  chubby-faced  children,  who  should  be  first  to  bring  me  walnuts 
fresh  from  the  shell,  bowls  of  milk,  and  cream  cheeses,  made  after  the 

best  of  fashions,  that  of  the  province  of  Alemtejo. 

******** 

WILLIAM  BECKFOED. 


• 


MEDLEY.  411 


FROM    "THE    LUSIAD." 

With  graceful  pride  three  hills  of  softest  green 
Rear  their  fair  bosoms  o'er  the  sylvan  scene  ; 
Their  sides  embroider'd  boast  the  rich  array 
Of  flowery  shrubs  in  all  the  pride  of  May  ; 
The  purple  lotus  and  the  snowy  thorn, 
And  yellow  pod-flowers  every  slope  adorn. 
From  the  green  summits  of  the  leafy  hills 
Descend  with  murmuring  lapse  three  limpid  rills ; 
Beneath  the  rose-trees  loitering  slow  they  glide, 
Now  tumbles  o'er  some  rock  their  crystal  pride  ; 
Sonorous  now  they  roll  adown  the  glade, 
Now  plaintive  tinkle  in  the  secret  shade ; 
Now  from  the  darkling  grove,  beneath  the  beam 
Of  ruddy  morn,  like  melted  silver  stream, 
Edging  the  painted  margins  of  the  bowers, 
And  breathing  liquid  freshness  on  the  flowers. 
Here  bright  reflected  in  the  pool  below 
The  vermil  apples  tremble  on  the  bough  ; 
Where  o'er  the  yellow  sands  the  waters  sleep, 
The  primrosed  banks  inverted,  dew-drops  weep ; 
Where  murmuring  o'er  the  pebbles  purls  the  stream, 
The  silver  trouts  in  playful  curvings  gleam. 
Long  thus  and  various  every  riv'let  strays, 
Till  closing  now  their  long  meand'ring  maze, 
Where  in  a  sinking  vale  the  mountains  end, 
Form'd  in  a  crystal  lake  the  waters  blend ; 
Fring'd  was  the  border  with  a  woodland  shade, 
In  every  leaf  of  various  green  array 'd, 
Each  yellow-ting'd,  each  mingling  tint  between 
The  dark  ash  verdure  and  the  silvery  green. 
The  trees  now  bending  forward,  slowly  shake 
Their  lofty  honors  o'er  the  crystal  lake  ; 
Now  from  the  flood  the  graceful  boughs  retire, 
With  coy  reserve,  and  now  again  admire 
Their  various  liveries  by  the  summer  dress'd, 
Smooth-gloss'd  and  soften'd  in  the  mirror's  breast. 
So  by  her  glass  the  wishful  virgin  strays, 

And  oft  retiring  steals  the  lingering  eaze. 
*  *  *  *    e  3    «, 

Wild  forest-trees  the  mountain  sides  array'd  : 
With  curling  foliage  and  romantic  shade ; 


412  MEDLEY. 

Here  spreads  the  poplar,  to  Alcides  dear ; 
And  dear  to  Phoebus,  ever  verdant  here, 
The  laurel  joins  the  bowers  for  ever  green, 
The  myrtle  bowers  belov'd  of  beauty's  queen. 
To  Jove  the  oak  his  wide- spread  branches  rears  ; 
And  high  to  heaven  the  fragrant  cedar  bears ; 
Where  through  the  glades  appear  the  cavern'd  rocks, 
The  lofty  pine-tree  waves  her  sable  locks  ; 
Sacred  to  Cybele,  the  whispering  pine 
Loves  the  wild  grottoes  where  the  white  cliffs  shine  ; 
Here  towers  the  cypress,  preacher  to  the  wise, 
Less'ning,  from  earth,  her  spiral  honors  rise, 
Till,  as  a  spear-point  rear'd,  the  topmost  spray 
Points  to  the  Eden  of  eternal  day. 
Translation  of  W.  J.  MIOKLK  Luis  DB  CAMOENS,  1517-1579. 


PARADISE. 

FROM   THE   ITALIAN    OF    DANTE. 

Longing  already  to  search  in  and  round 
The  heavenly  forest,  dense  and  living-green, 
Which  to  the  eyes  tempered  the  new-born  day, 

Withouten  more  delay  I  left  the  bank, 
Crossing  the  level  country  slowly,  slowly, 
Over  the  soil,  that  everywhere  breathed  fragrance. 

A  gently  breathing  air,  that  no  mutation 
Had  in  itself,  smote  me  upon  the  forehead — 
No  heavier  blow  than  of  a  pleasant  breeze  ; 

Whereat  the  tremulous  branches  readily 
Did  all  of  them  bow  downward  toward  that  side 
Where  its  first  shadow  casts  the  Holy  Mountain  ; 

Yet  not  from  their  upright  direction  bent, 
So  that  the  little  birds  upon  their  tops 
Should  cease  the  practice  of  their  tuneful  art ; 

But,  with  full-throated  joy,  the  hours  of  prime 
_  Singing  received  they  in  the  midst  of  foliage, 
That  made  monotonous  burden  to  their  rhymes ; 

Even  as  from  branch  to  branch  it  gathering  swells 
Through  the  pine  forests  on  the  shore  of  Chiassi 
When  JEolus  unlooses  the  sirocco. 

Already  my  slow  steps  had  led  me  on 
Into  the  ancient  wood  so  far,  that  I 
Could  see  no  more  the  place  where  I  had  entered  ; 


MEDLEY.  413 

And,  lo  !  my  farther  course  cut  off  a  river, 
Which,  toward  the  left  hand,  with  its  little  waves, 
Bent  down  the  grass  that  on  its  margin  sprang. 

All  waters  that  on  earth  most  limpid  are, 
Would  seem  to  have  within  themselves  some  mixture, 
Compared  with  that,  which  nothing  doth  conceal, 

Although  it  moves  with  a  brown,  brown  current, 
Under  the  shade  perpetual,  that  never 
Ray  of  sun  let  in,  nor  of  the  moon. 
Translation  of  II.  W.  LONGFELLOW.  DANTK  ALIQHIBBI,  1265-1321. 


NATUKE    TEACHING    IMMORTALITY 

Nature,  thy  daughter,  ever-changing  birth 

Of  thee,  the  great  Immutable,  to  man 

Speaks  wisdom  ;  is  his  oracle  supreme  ; 

And  he  who  most  consults  her  is  most  wise. 

Look  nature  through,  'tis  revolution  all. 

All  change,  no  death.    Day  follows  night,  and  night 

The  dying  day  ;  stars  rise,  and  set,  and  rise ; 

Earth  takes  th'  example.     See  the  summer  gay, 

With  her  green  chaplet,  and  ambrosial  flow'rs, 

Droops  into  pallid  autumn  ;  winter  gray, 

Horrid  with  frost,  and  turbulent  with  storm, 

Blows  autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  away, 

Then  melts  into  the  spring  ;  soft  spring,  with  breath 

Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south, 

Recalls  the  first.     All  to  re-flourish  fades, 

As  in  a  wheel  all  sinks  to  reascend  ; 

Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 

With  this  minute  distinction,  emblems  just, 
Nature  revolves,  but  man  advances ;  both 
Eternal,  that  a  circle,  this  a  line  ; 
That  gravitates,  this  soars.     Th'  aspiring  soul, 
Ardent  and  tremulous,  like  flame  ascends, 
Zeal  and  humility  her  wings,  to  heaven. 
The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various  forms, 
All  dies  into  new  life.     Life,  born  from  death, 
Rolls  the  vast  mass,  and  shall  for  ever  roll. 
No  single  atom,  once  in  being  lost, 
With  change  of  counsel  charges  the  Most  High. 
Matter  immortal,  and  shall  spirit  die  ? 
Above  the  nobler  shall  less  noble  rise  ? 
Shall  man  alone,  for  whom  all  else  revives, 


414  MEDLEY. 

Now  resurrection  know !  shall  man  alone, 
Imperial  man  !  be  sown  in  barren  ground, 
Less  privileg'd  than  grain  on  which  he  feeds  ? 
Is  man,  in  whom  alone  is  power  to  prize 
The  bliss  of  being,  or  with  previous  pain 
Deplore  its  period,  by  the  spleen  of  fate, 
Severely  doom'd,  death's  single  unredeem'd  ? 

EDWAED  TOTTNO,  16Sl-17o 


XXIX. 


fiiwung  anft  pgjjt 


THE    MOON. 

FROM   TUB  OBEKK   OF   SAPPHO. 

rPHE  stars  that  'round  the  beauteous  moon 
_L    Attendant  wait,  cast  into  shade 
Their  ineffectual  luster  soon 
As  she  in  full-orb'd  majesty  array'd 
Her  silver  radiance  showers 
Upon  this  world  of  ours. 

Translation  of  J.  H.  MJOUVJ 


LINES 


FROM   THE    -  MEMORABLE   MASK." 


Silvan.  Tell  me,  gentle  Hour  of  Night, 

Wherein  dost  thou  most  delight  ? 
Hour.  Not  in  sleep  ! 
Silvan.  Wherein,  then  ? 


416  EVENING      AND      NIGHT. 

Hour.  In  the  frolic  view  of  men. 
Silvan.  Lov'st  thou  music  ? 
Hour.  Oh,  'tis  sweet ! 
Silvan.  What's  dancing . 
Hour.  E'en  the  mirth  of  feet. 
Silvan.  Joy  you  in  fairies,  or  in  elves 
Hour.  We  are  of  that  sort  ourselves. 

But,  Silvan,  say,  why  do  you  love 
Only  to  frequent  the  grove  ? 
Silvan.  Life  is  fullest  of  content 
When  delight  is  innocent. 
Hour.  Pleasure  must  vary,  not  be  long; 

Come,  then,  let's  close,  and  end  the  song. 

DR.  THOMAS  CAMPION   ICO  I 


TO    CYNTHIA. 

Queen  and  huntress,  chaste  and  fair, 

Now  the  sun  is  laid  to  sleep ; 
Seated  in  thy  silver  chair, 

State  in  wonted  manner  keep  : 
Hesperus  entreats  thy  light, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Earth,  let  not  thy  envious  shade 

Dare  itself  to  interpose  ; 
Cynthia's  shining  orb  was  made 

Heaven  to  clear  when  day  did  close ; 
Bless  us,  then  with  wished  sight, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

Lay  thy  bow  of  pearl  apart, 

And  thy  crystal-shining  quiver  ; 
Give  unto  the  flying  hart 

Space  to  breathe,  how  short  soever ; 
Thou  that  mak'st  a  day  of  night, 
Goddess  excellently  bright ! 

BEN  JONSON    1574-1637. 


TO    NIGHT. 

Mysterious  Night !  when  our  first  parent  knew 
Thee  from  report  divine,  and  heard  thy  name, 
Did  he  not  tremble  for  this  lovely  frame, 

This  glorious  canopy  of  light  and  blue  ? 


EVENING      AND      NIGHT.  4i7 

Yet  'neath  the  curtain  of  translucent  dew, 

Bathed  in  the  rays  of  the  great  setting  flame, 

Hesperus  with  the  host  of  Heaven  came, 
And  lo  !  creation  widened  in  man's  view. 

Who  could  have  thought  such  darkness  lay  concealed 
Within  thy  beams,  0  Sun !  or  who  could  find, 

While  fly,  and  leaf,  and  insect  lay  revealed, 
Tli  at  to  such  countless  orbs  thou  mad'st  us  blind  ! 

Why  do  we,  then,  shun  Death  with  anxious  strife  ? 
If  Light  can  thus  deceive,  wherefore  not  Life  ? 

BLANCO  WHITE. 


NIGHT. 

When  I  survey  the  bright 

Celestial  sphere, 
So  rich  with  jewels  hung,  that  night 

Doth  like  an  Ethiop  bride  appear  ; 

My  soul  her  wings  doth  spread, 

And  heavenward  flies 
The  Almighty's  mysteries  to  read 

In  the  large  volume  of  the  skies. 

For  the  bright  firmament 

Shoots  forth  no  flame 
So  silent,  but  is  eloquent 

In  speaking  the  Creator's  name. 

4 

No  unregarded  star 

Contracts  its  light 
Into  so  small  character, 

Remov'd  far  from  our  human  sight : 

But  if  we  steadfast  look, 

We  shall  discern 
In  it,  as  in  some  holy  book, 

How  man  may  heavenly  knowledge  learn. 

It  tells  the  conqueror 

That  far-stretch'd  power, 
Which  his  proud  dangers  traffic  for, 

Is  but  the  triumph  of  an  hour. 
18* 


418  EVENING      AND      NIGHT. 

That  from  the  farthest  north 

Some  nation  may 
Yet  undiscovered  issue  forth, 

And  o'er  his  new-got  conquest  sway. 

Some  nation  yet  shut  in 

With  hills  of  ice, 
May  be  let  out  to  scourge  his  sin, 
Till  they  shall  equal  him  in  vice. 

And  they  likewise  shall 

Their  ruin  have  ; 
For  as  yourselves,  your  empires  fall, 

And  every  kingdom  hath  a  grave. 

There  those  celestial  fires, 

Though  seeming  mute, 
The  fallacy  of  our  desires, 

And  all  the  pride  of  life  confute. 

For  they  have  watch'd  since  first 

The  world  had  birth, 
And  found  sin  in  itself  accurst, 

And  nothing  permanent  on  earth. 

WILLIAM  HABINGTOX,  1560-1 64T 


TO    THE    MOON. 

FROM    THE    GERMAN. 

Fillest  hill  and  vale  again, 
Still  with  softening  light ! 

Loosest  from  the  world's  cold  chain 
All  my  soul  to-night ! 

Spreadest  round  me,  far  and  nigh, 

Soothingly  thy  smile ; 
From  thee,  as  from  friendship's  eye, 

Sorrow  shrinks  the  while. 

Every  echo  thrills  my  heart — 

Glad  and  gloomy  mood  ; 
Joy  and  sorrow  both  have  part 

In  my  solitude. 


EVENING      AND      NIGHT.  419 

River,  river,  glide  along ! 

I  am  sad,  alas  ! 
Fleeting  things  are  love  and  song — 

Even  so  they  pass  ! 

I  have  had,  and  I  have  lost 

What  I  long  for  yet ; 
Ah  !  why  will  we,  to  our  cost, 

Simple  joys  forget  ? 

River,  river,  glide  along, 

Without  stop  or  stay ; 
Murmur,  whisper  to  my  song, 

In  melodious  play : 

Whether  on  a  winter's  night 

Rise  thy  swollen  floods, 
Or  in  spring  thou  hast  delight, 

Watering  the  young  buds. 

Happy  he,  who,  hating  none, 

Leaves  the  world's  dull  noise, 
And  with  trusty  friends  alone 

Quietly  enjoys 

What,  forever  unexpressed, 

Hid  from  common  sight, 
Through  the  mazes  of  the  breast 

Softly  steals  the  night ! 
Translation  of  J.  8.  DWIGHT.  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  v.  GOETHE,  1749-1882 


MOONLIGHT, 


FROM   THE   OKKMAN. 


Darker  than  the  day, 
Clearer  than  the  night, 
Shines  the  mellow  moonlight, 

From  the  rocky  heights, 
Shapes  in  shimmer  clad, 
Mistily  are  mounting. 

Pearls  of  silver  dew, 
Soft  distilling,  drop 
On  the  silent  meadows. 


420  EVENING      AND      NIGHT. 

Night  of  sweetest  song, 
With  the  gloomy  woods, 
Philomela  mingleth. 

Far  in  ether  wide 
Yawns  the  dread  abyss 
Of  deep  worlds  uncounted. 

Neither  eye  nor  ear, 
Seeking,  findeth  here 
The  end  of  mazy  thinking. 

Evermore  the  wheel 
Of  unmeasured  Time 
Turns  round  all  existence ; 

And  it  bears  away 

Swift,  how  swift !  the  prey 

Of  fleet-flitting  mortals. 

Where  soft  breezes  blow, 
Where  thou  see'st  the  row 
Of  smooth-shining  beeches ; 

Driven  from  the  flood 
Of  the  thronging  Time, 
Lina's  hut  receives  me. 

Brighter  than  aloft, 

In  night's  shimmering  star, 

Peace  with  her  is  shining. 

And  the  vale  so  sweet, 
And  the  sweet  moonlight, 
Where  she  dwells,  is  sweeter. 
Anonymous  Translation.  CAKL  v.  KNBBEL,  1T44-1834. 


ELEGY. 

FROM   THE   ITALIAN   OF   PETBABCH. 

In  the  still  evening,  when  with  rapid  flight, 
Low  in  the  western  sky  the  sun  descends 
To  give  expectant  nations  life  and  light, 
The  aged  pilgrim,  in  some  clime  unknown, 
Slow  journeying,  right  onward  fearful  bends 
With  weary  haste,  a  stranger  and  alone  ; 
Yet,  when  his  labor  ends, 


EVENING      AND      NIGHT.  421 

He  solitary  sleeps. 

And  in  short  slumber  steeps 
Each  sense  of  sorrow  hanging  on  the  day, 
And  all  the  toil  of  the  long  past  way : 
But  0  each  pang,  that  wakes  with  morn's  first  ray, 

More  piercing  wounds  my  breast, 
When  heaven's  eternal  light  sinks  crimson  in  the  west ! 

His  burning  wheels  when  downward  Phoebus  bends, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  night,  its  lengthened  shade 
Each  towering  mountain  o'er  the  vale  extends ; 
The  thrifty  peasant  shoulders  light  his  spade, 
With  sylvan  carol  gay  and  uncouth  note, 
Bidding  his  cares  upon  the  wild  winds  float — 

Content  in  peace  to  share 

His  poor  and  humble  fare, 

As  in  that  golden  age 
We  honor  still,  yet  leave  its  simple  ways ; 
Whoe'er  so  list,  let  joy  his  hours  engage  : 
No  gladness  e'er  has  cheer'd  my  gloomy  days, 

Nor  moment  of  repose, 
However  rolled  the  spheres,  whatever  planet  rose. 

When  as  the  shepherd  marks  the  sloping  ray 
Of  the  great  orb  that  sinks  in  ocean's  bed, 
While  on  the  east  soft  steals  the  evening  gray, 
He  rises,  and  resumes  the  accustom'd  crook, 
Quitting  the  beechen  grove,  the  field,  the  brook, 
And  gently  homeward  drives  the  flock  he  fed  ; 

Then  far  from  human  tread, 

In  lonely  hut  or  cave, 

O'er  which  the  green  boughs  wave, 
In  sleep  without  a  thought  he  lays  his  head : 
Ah !  cruel  Love !  at  this  dark,  silent  hour, 
Thou  wak'st  to  trace,  and  with  redoubled  power, 

The  voice,  the  step,  the  air 
Of  her  who  scorns  my  chain,  and  flies  thy  fatal  snare. 

And  in  some  sheltered  bay,  at  evening's  close, 
The  mariners  their  rude  coats  'round  them  fold, 
Stretched  on  the  rugged  plank  in  deep  repose  : 
But  I,  though  Phoebus  sink  into  the  main, 
And  leave  Granada  wrapt  in  night  with  Spain, 
Morocco,  and  the  Pillars  fam'd  of  old — 
Though  all  of  human  kind, 


422  EVENING      AND      NIGHT. 

And  every  creature  blest, 

All  hush  their  ills  to  rest, 
No  end  to  my  unceasing  sorrows  find  : 
And  still  the  sad  account  swells  day  by  day ; 
For,  since  these  thoughts  on  my  lorn  spirit  prey, 

I  see  the  tenth  year  roll ; 
Nor  hope  of  freedom  springs  in  my  desponding  soul. 

Thus,  as  I  vent  my  bursting  bosom's  pain ! 
Lo !  from  their  yoke  I  see  the  oxen  freed — 
Slow  moving  homeward  o'er  the  furrowed  plain  : 
Why  to  my  sorrow  is  no  pause  decreed  ? 
Why  from  my  yoke  no  respite  must  I  know  ? 
Why  gush  these  tears,  and  never  cease  to  flow  ? 

Ah,  me  !  what  sought  my  eyes, 

When,  fixed  in  fond  surprise, 

On  her  angelic  face 

I  gazed,  and  on  my  heart  each  charm  impress'd  ? 
From  whence  nor  force  nor  art  the  sacred  trace 
Shall  e'er  remove,  till  I  the  victim  rest 

Of  Death,  whose  mortal  blow 

Shall  my  pure  spirit  free,  and  this  worn  frame  lay  low. 
Translation  of  LADY  DACKE.  FRANCESCO  PETKAKCA,  1804-1874. 


NIGHT    SONG. 


The  moon  is  up  in  splendor, 
And  golden  stars  attend  her ; 

The  heavens  are  calm  and  bright ; 
Trees  cast  a  deepening  shadow, 
And  slowly  ofi"  the  meadow 

A  mist  is  rising  silver-white. 

Night's  curtains  now  are  closing 
'Round  half  a  world  reposing 

In  calm  and  holy  trust : 
All  seems  one  vast,  still  chamber, 
Where  weary  hearts  remember 

No  more  the  sorrows  of  the  dust. 
Translation  of  C.  T.  BBOOKS.  MATTHIAS  CLATTDIUS,  1740-1818. 


EVENING      AND      NIGHT.  423 


PROGRESS    OF    EVENING. 

From  yonder  wood  mark  blue-eyed  Eve  proceed  : 
First  through  the  deep,  and  warm,  and  secret  glens, 
Through  the  pale-glimmering,  privet-scented  lane, 
And  through  those  alders  by  the  river-side  : 
Now  the  soft  dust  impedes  her,  which  the  sheep 
Have  hollow'd  out  beneath  their  hawthorn  shade. 
But  ah  !  look  yonder  !  see  a  misty  tide 
Rise  up  the  hill,  lay  low  the  frowning  grove, 
Enwrap  the  gay,  white  mansion,  sap  its  sides, 
Until  they  sink  and  melt  away  like  chalk. 
Now  it  comes  down  against  our  village  tower, 
Covers  its  base,  floats  o'er  its  arches,  tears 
The  clinging  ivy  from  the  battlements — 
Mingles  in  broad  embrace  the  obdurate  stone 
All  one  vast  ocean !  and  goes  swelling  on 
Slow  and  silent,  dim  and  deepening  waves. 

WALTER  SAVAGE  LANDOE. 


NIGHT. 

mOM  TIIK   ITALIAN. 

Night  dew-lipped  comes,  and  every  gleaming  star 

Its  silent  place  assigns  in  yonder  sky  ; 
The  moon  walks  forth,  and  fields  and  groves  afar. 

Touched  by  her  light,  in  silver  beauty  lie 
In  solemn  peace,  that  no  sound  comes  to  mar  ; 

Hamlets  and  peopled  cities  slumber  nigh  ; 
While  on  this  rock,  in  meditation's  mien, 

Lord  of  the  unconscious  world,  I  sit  unseen. 

How  deep  the  quiet  of  this  pensive  hour  ! 

Nature  bids  labor  cease — and  all  obey. 
How  sweet  this  stillness,  in  its  magic  power 

O'er  hearts  that  know  her  voice  and  own  her  sway  ! 
Stillness  unbroken,  save  when  from  the  flower 

The  whirring  locust  takes  his  upward  way ; 
And  murmuring  o'er  the  verdant  turf  is  heard 
The  passing  brook — or  leaf  by  breezes  stirred. 

Borne  on  the  pinions  of  night's  freshening  air, 
Unfettered  thoughts  with  calm  reflection  come  ; 


424  EVENING      AND      NIGHT. 

And  fancy's  train,  that  shuns  the  daylight  glare, 

To  wake  when  midnight  shrouds  the  heavens  in  gloom ; 
Now  tranquil  joys,  and  hopes  untouched  by  care, 

Within  my  bosom  throng  to  seek  a  home ; 
While  far  around  the  brooding  darkness  spreads, 
And  o'er  the  soul  its  pleasing  sadness  sheds. 
Anonymous  Translation.  IPPOLITO  PINDEMONTE,  1753-1 S28. 


EVENING. 

FROM   THE    PORTUGUESE   OF    CAMOENS. 

Silent  and  cool,  now  freshening  breezes  blow 
Where  groves  of  chestnut  crown  yon  shadowy  steep, 
And  all  around  the  tears  of  evening  weep 
For  closing  day,  whose  vast  orb,  westering  slow, 
Flings  o'er  the  embattled  clouds  a  mellower  glow  ; 
While  pens  of  folded  herds,  and  murmuring  deep, 
And  falling  rills,  such  gentle  cadence  keep, 
As  e'en  might  soothe  the  weary  heart  of  woe. 
Yet  what  to  me  is  eve,  what  evening  airs, 
Or  falling  rills,  or  ocean's  murmuring  sound, 
While  sad  and  comfortless  I  seek  in  vain 
Her  who  in  absence  turns  my  joy  to  cares, 
And,  as  I  cast  my  listless  glances  round, 
Makes  varied  scenery  but  varied  pain  ? 
Translation  of  VISCOUNT  STRANGFORD.  Luis  DE  CAMOENS,  1524-1579. 


SPRING     EVENING. 


Bright  with  the  golden  shine  of  heaven,  plays 

On  tender  blades  the  dew ; 
And  the  spring-landscape's  trembling  likeness  sways 

Clear  in  the  streamlet's  blue. 

Fair  is  the  rocky  fount,  the  blossomed  hedge, 
Groves  stained  with  golden  light ; 

Fair  is  the  star  of  eve,  that  on  the  edge 
Of  purple  clouds  shines  bright. 

Fair  is  the  meadow's  green — the  valley's  copse — 

The  hillock's  dress  of  flowers — 
The  alder-brook — the  reed-encircled  pond, 

O'er-snowed  with  blossom-showers. 


EVENING      AND      NIGHT.  425 

This  manifold  world  of  Love  is  held  in  one 

By  Love's  eternal  band  ; 
The  glow-worm  and  the  fire-sea  of  the  sun 

Sprang  from  one  Father's  hand  ! 

Thou  beckonest,  Almighty  !  from  the  tree 

The  blossom's  leaf  doth  fall ; 
Thou  beckonest,  and  in  immensity 

Is  quenched  a  solar  ball ! 
Anonymous  Translation.  FEIEDRICH  vox  MATOIISSOX,  1761-1831. 


SONG. 

The  splendor  falls  on  castle  walls, 

And  snowy  summits  old  in  story 
The  long  light  shakes  across  the  lakes 

And  the  wild  cataract  leaps  in  glory  : 
Blow,  bugle,  blow,  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

Oh  hark  !  oh  hear  !  now  thin  and  clear, 

And  thinner,  clearer,  farther  going  ! 
Oh  !  sweet  and  far,  from  cliff  and  scar, 

The  horns  of  Elf-land  faintly  blowing. 
Blow  ;  let  us  hear  the  purple  glens  replying. 
Blow,  bugle,  answer  echoes,  dying,  dying,  dying. 

0  Love,  they  die  on  yon  rich  sky, 

They  faint  on  hill,  on  field,  on  river  ; 
Our  echoes  roll  from  soul  to  soul, 

And  grow  forever  and  forever. 
Blow,  bugle,  blow  ;  set  the  wild  echoes  flying. 
And  answer,  echoes,  answer  dying,  dying,  dying. 

•     ALFRED  TENNTSOX. 


SONG. 

Sweet  Echo,  sweetest  nymph,  that  liv'st  unseen 

Within  thy  airy  shell 
By  slow  Meander's  margent  green, 
And  in  the  violet  embroider'd  vale, 

Where  the  love-lorn  nightingale 
Nightly  to  thee  her  sad  song  mourneth  well ; 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  of  a  gentle  pair 


426  EVENING      AND       NIGHT. 

That  likest  thy  Narcissus  are  ? 

0,  if  thou  have 
Hid  them  in  some  flow'ry  cave, 

Tell  me  but  where, 

Sweet  queen  of  parley,  daughter  of  the  sphere ! 
So  may'st  thou  be  translated  to  the  skies, 
And  give  resounding  grace  to  all  heaven's  harmonies. 

JOHN  MILTON,  1608-1674. 


LIFE. 

Like  to  the  falling  of  a  star, 
Or  as  the  flights  of  eagles  are, 
Or  like  the  fresh  spring's  gaudy  hue, 
Or  silver  drops  of  morning  dew, 
Or  like  a  wind  that  chafes  the  flood, 
Or  bubbles  which  on  water  stood — 
Even  such  is  man,  whose  borrow'd  light 
Is  straight  call'd  in,  and  paid  to-night, 
The  wind  blows  out ;  the  bubble  dies  ; 
The  spring  entomb'd  in  autumn  lies  ; 
The  dew  dries  up  ;  the  star  is  shot ; 
The  flight  is  past — and  man  forgot. 

HENRY  KING,  Bishop  of  Chichester,  1591-1669. 


ON     HOPE. 

Reflected  on  the  lake,  I  love 

To  see  the  stars  of  evening  glow, 
So  tranquil  in  the  heaven  above, 

So  restless  in  the  wave  below. 

Thus  heavenly  Hope  is  all  serene ; 

But  earthly  Hope,  how  bright  soe'er, 
Still  flutters  o'er  this  changing  scene, 

As  false  and  fleeting  as  'tis  fair. 

BISHOP  HKHKR. 


SONNET. 

Beauty  still  walketh  on  the  earth  and  air, 
Our  present  sunsets  are  as  rich  in  gold 
As  ere  Iliad's  music  was  outrolled  ; 


K  V  K  N  I  N  <j      AND      NIGHT.  427 

The  roses  of  the  spring  are  ever  fair, 

'Along  branches  green  still  ring-doves  coo  and  pair, 

And  the  deep  sea  still  foams  its  music  old. 

So,  if  we  are  at  all  divinely  souled, 

This  beauty  will  unloose  our  bonds  of  care. 

'Tis  pleasant,  when  blue  skies  are  o'er  us  bending, 

Within  old  starry-gated  Poesy, 

To  meet  a  soul  set  to  no  worldly  tune, 

Like  thine,  sweet  friend  !  oh,  dearer  this  to  me 

Than  are  the  dewy  trees,  the  sun,  the  moon. 

Or  noble  music  with  a  golden  ending. 

ALEXANDER  SMITH. 


TWILIGHT. 

There  is  an  evening  twilight  of  the  heart 

When  its  wild  passion-waves  are  lull'd  to  rest, 
And  the  eye  sees  life's  fairy  scenes  depart, 

As  fades  the  day-dream  in  the  rosy  west. 
'Tis  with  a  nameless  feeling  of  regret 

We  gaze  upon  them  as  they  melt  away, 
And  fondly  would  we  bid  them  linger  yet. 

But  Hope  is  'round  us  with  her  angel  lay, 
Hailing  afar  some  happier  moonlight  hour  ; 
Dear  are  her  whispers  still,  though  lost  their  early  power. 

In  youth  the  cheek  was  crimson'd  with  her  glow 

Her  smile  was  loveliest  then ;  her  matin  song 
Had  heaven's  own  music,  and  the  note  of  woe 

Was  all  unheard  her  sunny  bowers  among. 
Life's  little  world  of  bliss  was  newly  born ; 

We  knew  not,  cared  not,  it  was  born  to  die, 
Flush'd  with  the  cool  breeze  and  the  dews  of  morn. 

With  dancing  heart  we  gazed  on  the  pure  sky, 
And  mock'd  the  passing  clouds  that  dimm'd  its  blue, 
Like  our  own  sorrows  then,  as  fleeting  and  as  few. 

And  manhood  felt  her  sway  too — on  the  eye, 

Half  realized  her  early  dreams  burst  bright, 
Her  promised  bower  of  happiness  seem'd  nigh, 

Its  days  of  joy,  its  vigils  of  delight. 
And  though  at  times  might  lower  the  thunder-storm, 

And  the  red  lightnings  threaten,  still  the  air 
Was  balmy  with  her  breath,  and  her  loved  form, 

The  rainbow  of  the  heart,  was  hovering  there. 


428  EVENING      AND      NIGHT. 

"Tis  in  life's  noontide  she  is  nearest  seen, 

Her  wreath  the  summer  flower,  her  robe  of  summer  green. 

But  though  less  dazzling  in  her  twilight  dress, 

There's  more  of  heaven's  pure  beam  about  her  now  ; 
That  angel- smile  of  tranquil  loveliness, 

Which  the  heart  worships,  glowing  on  her  brow ; 
That  smile  shall  brighten  the  dim  evening-star 

That  points  our  destined  tomb,  nor  e'er  depart 
Till  the  faint  light  of  life  is  fled  afar, 

And  hush'd  the  last  deep  beating  of  the  heart ; 
The  meteor  bearer  of  our  parting  breath, 
A  moombeam  in  the  midnight  cloud  of  death. 

FITZ-GREENE  HALLECB. 


p 


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